joshua mertz's Shared Poems

I fear that my poems will always be crudah
Than that dead famous poet named Pablo Neruda
His verses were plentiful and surrealistic
And his imagery haunting and somnambulistic
An ambassador once to the United Nations
He must surely have sampled a hundred libations
And eaten of figs and sang with the moon
And danced with the ladies from midnight to noon
Well the poet is dead now and not soon forgotten
And his poetry lives though his body is rotten
And the earth drinks the soul of the Chilean Buddah
That dead famous poet named Pablo Neruda

I got a 39 inch flat screen
And a cheap Sony Blu-Ray player
I got hot cocoa and half and half
I got books, the New Yorker and Netflix
Clear skies, stars and rain
I got my 28 foot Airstream man cave
With just enough clutter
To make it masculine
I got my seat, my cup, my comfort
And God I know it's good
But it's just not as much fun
As it could be
'Cause I ain't got you

Why the hell do we ask why?
And what of it?
Aren't questions just a way
of gaming the old man?
A type of hubris?
And why so damn many questions?
Is that all there is... little brain monkeys
screaming in monkey delight
at all the wonderful words?
Exactly what is it that makes us ask why?
And how are why and what conjoined--
Since, being words, they are random vibrations
To which we attach meaning?
Do the questions stop?
Do the monkeys sleep?
And what about who?

Question for Ms. Stein:
If there is no there there,
Is there a here here?
That is the who for whom we wait
Inside this very moment
No past, no future, only the now
In which we wait
For what or whom we do not know

Sock feet on cold floor
Wool, wind, rain and the river
Chill air, hidden sun