“I Would Rather,” a poem . . . Rather, I would live than write a single poem. To take a walk or touch a cheek or glide a comb, Through hair that is not dry, but lustrous be. I would rather not be sad, but find my life happy. A poem is nice, but I’m inside, And I would rather run or glide, Through wind with sun embracing all my ways, For I am sad and lonely these days. I have the will a poem to write, But I am scared to run outside and fly a kite, Too weak of will and body to engage, In acts of life, stuck on this page. If I could do both, sure I would, To write and live if only angels could, Help me regain my happy will and hope. With poetry alone, companions mope.
We got two goats, they fertilize and eat the grass out back,A billy and a nanny, there’s milk within her sack.If every family had two goats, perhaps you’d be more happy,Some fresh and tasty milk there’d be; our lawn is looking snappy, We called them farms when I was young, and some people had two.We grew our food and animals; that is what we’d do.We’d milk our nanny goat and cows and maybe have a horseWe were quite self sufficient, but we are not now, of course. Then “Progress” it did come around. “A farm’s not good for you,Give up your farms and modernize.” And that is what we’d do.We do not touch the soil now or fill our hands with dirt,And that is where we’re at right now, feeling lost and hurt. A cat or dog is what we have, but farms are zoned away,And our pets do watch TV with us most every day.A farm was not abnormal then; no, not too long ago,But “Progress” likes to cripple; it’s a very clever foe. If anyone who reads this now, recalls this little warning,And wakes up to another day, in distant, future morning,And has the chance to get two goats, perhaps you’d be more happy,If you might start a little farm, you’re life could be less crappy. If you can have some animals and grow some crops quite near,To your little residence, please do not think it queer,If you have peace of mind and feel that life is good again,Do not give in to “Progress;” IT is not good for men.
I wanted to be a soldier, in uniform and proud, Protecting noble sentiments; I could be awfully loud, Expressing all of my concerns for bad guys’ ill intent, And then I found out truly where our bombs were being sent. I wanted to be a teacher; I thought that would be neat, Until, within a hall, I heard the clambered feet, Of students marching to their rooms to get indoctrinated. I was a prison warden, prison life perpetuated. I wanted to be a lawyer, and to show up in the court, Pleading justice and fair play, to always be the sort, Of legal representative to strive for decency, But money ruled; “Where,” I asked, “was a democracy?” Am I too idealistic; do I need to drop the bombs, Force knowledge and the law on children, dads and moms? I expect too much and I am spoiled rotten all the time. If I lived inside a box, I could not write this rhyme.