Ode to the Weed
ode to the weed
laminated death seen through a weed-haze
a joint committee puffing wisdom
musing on their halcyon days
when their limitless freedom
gave them isolation
fear in quarantine
drugged elation
in between
being
one
seeing
what has been
contemplation
a reckless routine
and pleasant sensation
beyond their sheltered kingdom
the thirteenth disciple betrays
the promise of herb-inspired custom
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poem by Derrick Hubert Schnabel
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Painful Writing
sonnet #11
painful writing
living can be through introspection
searching for the meaning in my life
yet this does not imply perfection
pleasure versus pain is still in strife
i am in growing and creating
in the making ever unfinished
the writer prevented from writing
life passing by not truly engaged
pain prevents me from writing freely
and then i write to escape the pain
still needed by someone uniquely
for together we have smelt the rain
when there is nothing left to explore
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poem by Derrick Hubert Schnabel
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On the Deck
sonnet #18
on the deck
i sit in silence on the deck at night
and look into the gloom. the low winds utter
low sighing sounds. along the horizon’s height
the mountains rise darkly in the waning light;
within the house, behind a wind-blown shutter,
a flickering light burns, and white moths flutter
against the casement in their blundering flight.
attracted by the glow of brighter lamps,
the younger guys have left me with my ‘pipe’,
listening to the wind and crickets call.
i only think: the sun has dried my cramps,
the mist will touch the morn, the time is ripe
and in the sky, the stars begin to fall.
poem by Derrick Hubert Schnabel
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Thoughts in the style of Pope
Sonnet #16
thoughts in the style of pope
i know how little can be known
i see all others’ faults and feel my own;
my own strange purpose to find
or make an enemy of mankind?
why is the external for that internal given?
am i not a God and earth my only heaven?
i, a virtuous son, am ill at ease
the lustful “Father” gave me a dire disease.
distracted by what others feel, what others think,
all pleasures sicken, all triumphs sink;
my right too rigid hardens into wrong
for the strong too weak, for the weak too strong.
all forms that die, other forms supply,
so i can catch that final breath, and die.
poem by Derrick Hubert Schnabel
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Metastases
sonnet #5
metastasis
i have become a thief of the night, stealing precious hours;
that hated word, metastasis, which makes soon become now,
so easy to hate when i need mostly to love somehow.
do not mourn my passing or miss the friendship that is ours,
grass is still green though we stand in a desert bleak and bare.
around me ghosts listen, my words glint only as fool’s gold;
with the depth of a blind man’s gaze i see i’ll not get old,
we earn what we get and nothing comes for free – wisdom rare!
there’s a great deal i can change, even more that i cannot;
i’ve learned to live with pain, fatigue replacing energy,
i’ve learned to accept if with sorrow, those who have left me;
why count the cost of lost dreams, discarded hopes – i dare not!
the friends who remain teach me to accept my death with grace,
their love and their caring will guide me to a kind safe place: -)
DHS 12/2010
poem by Derrick Hubert Schnabel
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