Here it is: a poem—a thought—
a creation born and set adrift
To wander, at the very least,
round and round inside my mind—
Or wander maybe farther:
around the world—out into space!
Maybe thoughts are more than physical—
or physical like neutrinos:
Real, but traveling almost anyplace,
unmolested, through the world or sun—
Only occasionally colliding with reality
and being felt: becoming known.
We may in fact be bathed in thoughts
and poems from round the world—
Or other worlds—in other galaxies…
and only now and then do thoughts and poems
Invade some open mind and translate there,
and make their presence known.
Is this my poem—newly born—formed of my thoughts—
made immortal by my words and memory…
Or was Socrates closer to the truth:
That nothing’s new but only found?
A Hill resident, the author believes that the appreciation of art should not be influenced by the vagaries or prejudices of biography.