Mind Fields: Poems And Ideas For The Field Of MindPosted: November 4, 2022 Filed under: Mind Fields, Poetry | Tags: Arthur Rosch, Mind Fields, Poetry, Writing to be Read 2 Comments
Intrinsic humility is the understanding that one’s own life may be full of fascinating details but the lives of countless others are equally as fascinating to themselves as your life is to you.
Sound of rainfall:
tiny infant fingers
tapping the roof
thousands at a time.
Life is not my enemy. True,
It will kill me before too long but
death is the act of highest compassion.
I have a purpose. How kind of life to provide
me with that sense of my being.
Life is not my enemy. How would a great teacher be
a nemesis unless it was necessary? Life is not my enemy.
We Must Fix What Is Left
Oct 31, 2022
“It’s broken.” My grandson stands over his red fire truck.
The wheels have come off. The boy’s lower lip thrusts out and I can see that his heart is broken too. If I tell him that it’s just a toy, he won’t be comforted. This was the only truck in his world and now his grief will carry him to a child’s little hades, for just a minute. What is a minute to a three year old? It may as well be forever. For the duration of that minute all hell breaks loose and his tears and rage fill the room till all the grown-ups flee. Except me. I’m the baby sitter. I know how he feels. The world is broken, our world. And it was we who broke it, stuffed it, neglected it, tore its roots out. Has it come to this? My grief for a broken world carries me to my own hades, my underworld of sorrow where what has been done cannot be undone until we have atoned like ancient Jews on Yom Kippur.? What punishment do we receive if we fail to atone? Regret, more like: oh the regret we have yet to feel as the land sinks and the seas rise. Our earth is frangible, it can be waylaid like the victims of highway robbery. “Hands up, planet!” The men in dark suits are digging holes. “Can’t you see we’re busy here? Go away with your storms. We know how to deal with your kind!”
They’re only doing their jobs, they’re following orders.
“Take them away,” croaks the man in the suit and tie. “Take them away and hide them in the deepest mines.”
It’s broken. Can it be fixed? The next generations are tasked with this inhuman mess. They will have to be strong beyond what we know. They will have to develop themselves in unforeseen ways to have the stamina to work within the broken systems on the derelict highways. Armageddon will be indefinitely postponed. It already happened and we missed it. We were busy fighting. The next apocalypse will hit us before we’re ready. That is the nature of things. We have only the promise in Luke and Mark and John, Christians before Christianity, who learned that the lilies of the field will always be in their raiment, even if it is only in heaven.
September 26, 2022
I forget that evil tyrants run the world.
I forget that artists and thinkers
barely exist, barely scratch by
with a sigh, with patient resignation.
I forget that kindness is hindered
at every turn by evil intentions of those who command
the power of Calamity. I forget
that bad guys have no love
but don’t even miss it. I forget
that tenderness is
but a beginning to ever greater tenderness.
I forget that
we create ourselves in versions
of the pattern laid down within
the great infinite Memory. I forget everything
except that I exist and sometimes I forget that, too.
What I remember is this: I am aware of you. I am aware of your scent and the streams of feeling that flow between us.
That I Can Never Forget.
Arthur Rosch is a novelist, musician, photographer and poet. His works are funny, memorable and often compelling. One reviewer said “He’s wicked and feisty, but when he gets you by the guts, he never lets go.” Listeners to his music have compared him to Frank Zappa, Tom Waits, Randy Newman or Mose Allison. These comparisons are flattering but deceptive. Rosch is a stylist, a complete original. His material ranges from sly wit to gripping political commentary.
Arthur was born in the heart of Illinois and grew up in the western suburbs of St. Louis. In his teens he discovered his creative potential while hoping to please a girl. Though she left the scene, Arthur’s creativity stayed behind. In his early twenties he moved to San Francisco and took part in the thriving arts scene. His first literary sale was to Playboy Magazine. The piece went on to receive Playboy’s “Best Story of the Year” award. Arthur also has writing credits in Exquisite Corpse, Shutterbug, eDigital, and Cat Fancy Magazine. He has written five novels, a memoir and a large collection of poetry. His autobiographical novel, Confessions Of An Honest Man won the Honorable Mention award from Writer’s Digest in 2016.
More of his work can be found at www.artrosch.com
Photos at https://500px.com/p/artsdigiphoto?view=photos
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These are all very good poems/pieces, Art. I really do like the way your writing makes me think about things. Bravo!
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Thank you, Robbie. What’s it for if it doesn’t make you think? That’s a rhetorical question.
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