Saturday, April 18, 2009

On my 'pony' for 50th B-day road trip, June 2004
near Newcastle on the Tyne, England 

Pretentious
4/16/09

Fake it until you make it
is a phrase I've often heard
and in sales, advertising, more so,
to state claim until proven otherwise,
perhaps every dream starts this way
whether to be a doctor, lawyer,
actor, writer, athlete, or anything else,
initially there is idea of grandeur
an end result formed so attractively
that a person becomes truly infatuated,
excited, motivated, to do what's necessary
for attainment of 'pie in sky',
viewed by others not so convinced,
or connected, as waste of time,
such an impossibility, with low odds
of successful fruition, that invites heartache,
putting damper on fire for fear
wanting to spare friends the hurt,
insult, or ridicule they once experienced
when reaching for something beyond grasp,
often cemented with a solemn vow
directed toward being an avid realist
unwilling to risk significance by failing,
interpreted falsely when lessons aren't learned,
which denies creative power of humans
each individual carrying life purpose gift
which may seem pretentious until delivered.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Such truer words…

To follow one’s bliss be it a pinnacle of dreams or desire—I for one celebrate that courage.

As in the example of love;

The reflections of one so beautiful in my heart. I love how that feels. I cherish the light in one’s eyes as they too enjoy that reflection—that fire between us.

Douse the fire? Why would anyone do such an obscene act—save for fear? We celebrate the stories of Rahda and Shiva, Barret and Browning, Piaf and Cerdan, Tristan and Isolde? Yet most prefer to view from where they stand behind the safety of the wall where they shall never have a taste of the ambrosia that fuels a great heart’s pyre.

How sad is this? For to know the heights of the Eagle’s soar, mustn’t one not but dare the stature of the most imposing of summits?
To not leave this world in the throws of passion, be it reaching for the golden ring, at high speeds on a wondrous pony, sailing with man made wings amongst the jagged cliffs, cavorting with mermaids in a clandestine world or with hearts burst open in ecstatic bliss of the Golden Mean, would that not be the grandest of one’s last breath than to take it in a fallow bed of infirmity?
For those of us who know the choice, is there such?
Be safe or be free--need I say?