I AM NOT MOSES

Posted on March 7, 2022 by Roland's Ragbag

*Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones … Singing Angels (‘Honesty’) Tapestry 1898 (detail)*

Do I just pretend to be open
am I a charlatan at heart
how sincere
how honest
when push
comes to shove
when the chips are down
what remains
that is true to my intent

Have I forsaken my promise
my desire to be me
openly faithful
truly chaste
a compassionate soul
struggling for honesty
and resolved to lead
into the Promised Land

My poems are
imagination’s creatures
but still
slave to whim
to make-believe
and the pre-determined end
does this condemn me to
reach a bargain
to fudge the truth

If so then
has that truth
become another lie
or does it just allow me
a latitude
a breadth of narrative
which covers up
the shallowness of my intent

I compromise surely
make accommodations to reality
inhibited by
thoughts of entitlement
feelings of worth
desire to please
to purchase credibility
a mercenary versifier
forever regretting
that this facade
must be negotiated
with my better judgement
not wanting to hurt
protecting decorum and
further weakening honesty
effectively
dissolving the truth

And yet
rather this
than face the rejection
that surely would follow
as always
the truth that
no – I am no wunderkind
not tomorrow’s success
nor Destiny’s child
just waiting
to be found

On Being Cantankerous

Posted on January 27, 2021 by Roland's Ragbag

Testy now, and truculent,
Jumping to conclusions,
I tend to speak before I’ve thought,
A source of some confusions.

When I was young and in my prime
I would have paused and pondered
Before I’d let my mouth run free;
My mind would not have wandered.

Now, grumpy and cantankerous,
I’ve no wish to be told,
Despite the fact the signs are there,
That I am growing old.

For age and life have brought to me
Such exasperation
That now I speak my forthright mind,
Inviting much vexation.

Now I’m content to be quite brusque,
To stir up some dissent.
My time of life has brought disdain,
I’ll say just what I meant.

With one foot in the waiting grave
Why pussyfoot around?
Just tell it as it is, my friend,
No comebacks underground.

TRUTH . . . A Haiku

Posted on February 28, 2020 by Roland's Ragbag

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

The Truth embellished

Becomes yet another Lie

Hold fast to the Truth

The Imbroglio

Posted on September 19, 2018 by Roland's Ragbag

The IMBROGLIO

I’m embroiled in an imbroglio –
Meshed in fuss and stress;
I didn’t see it coming up,
Careless I confess.

I told her not to speak her mind,
Not to tell the tale;
But NO, she had to spill the beans
Our secret to unveil.

Such honesty’s not always wise,
It often leads to pain.
I doubt she’ll ever think of me
Desirously again.

For, admitting to our liaison then,
Over a glass of wine,
Brought calumny upon her head,
And a beating up on mine.

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Trump – On Being Honest

Posted on June 5, 2018 by Roland's Ragbag

TRUMP – ON BEING HONEST

I am the genie of your lamp
Beloved of the twitterati,
Saviour of the western world
And the Republican Party.

My daily newscast you may not cherish
But someday soon you will
For I’m a genius born to last
A deep down thinker – for good or ill

So please believe my apophthegms,
All that I have to you told,
But you will remember if you’re wise.
All that’s twittered is not gold.

Am I a POET?

Posted on March 7, 2018 by Roland's Ragbag

CALLIOPE: the muse who presides over eloquence and epic poetry;

Am I a POET?

I’m a poet! Who are you?
Are you a Poet, too?

Do I write poetry?
I say I do;
But is it poetry I write?
What say you?

Was it by sweated brow,
By haunted vision,
I overcame my indecision?

Did Damascene insights,
Or inspiration’s muse,
Give birth
To my poetic views?

This begs the question
Long undecided:
Am I a Poet,
Famed or derided?

I wrote a poem the other day,
or was it just words
in a different order,
pretending
to have their own reason for existence?

Such feelings are
The price I pay;
when I say
I am a poet
am I honest,
do I really know it?

Addressing myself
I’ve learned to ask,
and every time I pen a poem
I set myself this very task . . .

Can I really
hand on heart
claim to be
a tiny part
of all those great
illustrious sages
who’ve coloured
life’s dramatic pages
in epics, sonnets,
ballads and odes,
presenting prose
in verbal codes,
fantasising fecund dreams,
massaging thoughts and wild ideas,
composing their Byronic idylls,
word music of the spheres?

The net result,
always the same,
I know I’ll have
no claim to fame.

Such images,
they prove to me,
that shallow thoughts,
marshmallow words,
can never in a thousand years,
however many sweated tears,
make me one of their poetic peers.