Poem 600

This poem is number 600

Of poems I have "published" on the Web.

My steady enthusiasm for writing

Poetry hasn't started to ebb.

That's six hundred since the spring

Of the year twenty fourteen. Okay,

I know I sound like a chatterbox,

But I thought I had a lot to say.

The process is electrifying:

It happens after I immerse

Myself in an ocean of thoughts and feelings

And out pop my comments in verse.

There's always something to write about--

Something to question, discuss or explore.

Some might say, "Enough! Enough!"

While others say, "Give me more!"

I've always admired a great poet

With a facile tongue and a flowing pen.

I'll never be a Shakespeare or Milton,

A Wordsworth, Keats, or Shelley, but then

That's not important. I'll still write poems.

If one of them strikes a chord that will be

Nice; but if a poem falls flat,

All I can say is, "C'est la vie!"

If there is a lull in my writing,

Do not fret, for goodness' sake.

I probably haven't kicked the bucket;

I'm probably just taking a break.

(9-5-17) By Bob B

Information War

Fact-checking is meaningless if

People have no respect for facts.

Just watch social media and you

Will see how the public reacts

To natural disasters or shootings.

Conspiracy theories quickly abound

And suddenly the Internet is

An information battleground.

Knowing the truth no longer gives us

A feeling of calm or a sense of relief,

Since few people have an incentive

For altering a false belief.

Experts say our psychological

Weaknesses are targets for those

Who spread misinformation for

Ideological ends. These pros

Know how to use the media well.

Their credibility's merely a ruse.

And suddenly the falsehoods are

Amplified all over the news.

Hacks and kooks and fringe group crazies

Have been around forever; it's true.

If there's a chance to spread their lies,

They do not miss a cue.

Fringe groups going mainstream. Yikes!

That's a recipe for disaster,

Especially when a gullible public

Eats up the nonsense faster and faster.

Orwell's 1984

For many years made us wary.

The year twenty seventeen

Is also looking damned scary.

(9-3-17) By Bob B

The Encounter

While on my walk I spied a flower

With huge petals, ruffled, yet tender:

A dazzling yellow-gold hibiscus,

Glowing with majestic splendor.

I couldn't help but stop and stare

At its striking beauty and gentle grace.

Not to acknowledge such elegance

Would definitely be a disgrace.

As I gazed upon the bloom,

I heard a quiet voice that said,

"They say it isn't nice to stare,

But go ahead…go ahead.

"Most people walk right by.

They see the flowers on the plant,

But their true ability

To grasp what they see is scant.

"Can you see me for who I am--

My individuality?

Or do all blooms appear as an

Anonymous totality?

"Yes, it's true that all of the flowers

Create a lovely impression together.

Think of gardens teeming with roses,

Fields of daisies, or hills of heather.

"But can you see my unique nature--

The deep essence of my being?

Am I more than merely one

Of many? Tell me what you're seeing."

Speechless, as though in a trance,

I stared awhile, then walked away,

Pondering every meaningful word

The beautiful flower had to say.

(9-1-17) By Bob B