Edward A. Morris

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My thoughts of you, and yours of me,
Can be portrayed mathematically:
To sum up every complex trait
We factorize and integrate,
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What wafting of wisdom! Such saccharine sound!
Deft diction's depictions, opaque and profound!
So ruminants rumble and mumble and seek
To mine out much marrow, obtuse and oblique.
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Truth as we see it
Is not as we’d choose it.
The true say “so be it, ”
The truthless refuse it.
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If your ego is capacious
Or your appetite voracious
For a plucky, pertinacious
Confidence in cherished creeds,
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Poor ol' Pyrrho, he's the hero
Of my somber poetry:
Couldn't figure how to pick your
Core beliefs with certainty.
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If everything were simple it would shape just like a brain,
And I'd take it out and look at it and never feel a pain,
And I'd pity poorer mortals who didn't care if it were true,
For the clear and simple reasons that explained their shallow view,
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'A man convinced against his will
Is of the same opinion still'—
But though we will with all our might,
A sober thought still wins that fight.
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Of all the critters men have cursed,
The hateful hairy tick is worst.
His charm conceals a crudest quest
To snag you in his noxious nest.
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In Plato's cave the poppies grow
Enchantingly, it seems:
A soothing, soporific show
Of mesmerizing dreams.
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Whose words these are I think I know.
His workshop is a nuthouse though;
He will not like my chortling sneer
That mocks his composition so.
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Though of two minds he played it cool,
True to the sacred feline rule,
Convinced he could not be a crime,
Both cat and carcass at one time,
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So sophic, so subtle, so sensual, so strong,
He gleamed in God's garments so fair.
To the virginal mother he sang his sweet song
With her family happily there.
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The road may lead a thousand miles.
It seems absurd; it's not my style.
But there's one way to best a trial:
Before you run, you first must crawl.
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Are cucumbers cool
As a general rule?
How fresh is a daisy?
Are loons always crazy?
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When the moon hits your brain like the swoon of cocaine, that's psychosis.
When delusions galore throw good sense out the door, that's psychosis.

Bells will ring (ding-a-ling-a-ling, wing-a-ding-a-ding!) as you string yarns together.
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The account of Descartes was redoubtable:
“I exist, since this thought is undoubtable.”
Mister Hume peered inside,
Said, “I see naught besides
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