Perilous Thoughts

Yes, perhaps I am a bit insane.
I confess it now to release you
from any apprehension
that I may need to be listened to,
that there is wisdom in my fool’s words,

that there is reason to believe in love
in the midst of pain, even if
it is the pain that reminds me
how powerfully love burrows into our soul
and refuses to release us

even after death.
Laugh at me when I believe it can strike
in a moment, that it surrounds us
in beauty and light, in flowers and lambs
as much as the tenderest caress in the night.

And if I, Quixote-like, love whores and ladies,
children and ancient ruins with the same
slightly offbeat ardor;
well then, that is that is my particular madness
and I claim it, holding it close,

preaching, holding that love to my breast
like a snake handler,
well aware love has the power
to raise a man from the dead,
or kill him in his finest moment.

About this poem.

Don’t even ask me where THIS one came from. Sometimes I think poetry has a mind of it’s own. No, let me restate that. MOST of the time I think poetry has a mind of it’s own.

Tom