What Are We Missing? Poem by Smoky Hoss

Drops of rain
Wear upon an old bit of forgotten copse
Laying alone in a fallow field
All the different shapes and shades
Of stains and grains
Write the color and flavor
Of the soul in the wood.
-Who this beauty shall ever see?
To whom is it given, as intended,
A beautiful gesture
Of grace and love
Redolent mystery, only
In the quiet parts of nature...
Oh, how much more
Pure and simple beauty
In our daily hurry and worry
Do we miss
And even care not to see?
-By the making of humanities own hands,
And blindly narcissistic plans
We numbly linger in our loss
Trapped deep in a self-idolatrous foss.
The wonder of nature we can no longer see
Transfixed in our own vain absurdity.
No longer aching to get out-of-doors
(that pure passion villianously absorbed
by man's own created
electronic whores)
What a wretched price to pay
By those who willingly decide
Always inside to 'safely' stay.

We all poets would be
If only our spiritual eyes were opened
For all of life's beauty to see.
Those who refuse to try
Sadly inside may die,
For of them none shall ever invision
What we, who dare to look, find
Nor never feel
What we, who dare to touch, intwine
Can never know
What we, who dare to think, 'get'
And absolutely never understand
What we, who dare to pause....... can in no way ever forget.
Often, the sky weeps with rain
The earth tumbles with pain
Nature moans and groans as part of the cost
For paradise lost,
Longing for divine affection
And human attention;
Tis true:
Love is what everything and everyone is after,
From the simple slave all the way to the Master.
For God's own sweetest kiss
Is what we surely most miss,
In this
Our own blind, self abyss.

'..... there is nothing, not even crime, more opposed to poetry, to philosophy, ay, to life itself, than this incessant business.'
- Henry David Thoreau.