Has it all been done before and said before and if so why say it again anymore?
Not all people seem to know or have heard the word, including me, I agree.
Truth is free.
In every age we rant and rage and fill a page.
We seek a sage.
The old is new and new is old, a neverending story told.
We wonder why we live and die and laugh and cry.
Beneath the sky.
So do I.
Tich Ennis
17th August, 2017
Should I write a poem about the bad things in life, a mugger’s weapon or a surgeon’s knife?
A knife may be used for good or ill, to cure or kill.
Dirt is misplaced matter, eat the wrong food and get fatter.
Uranium makes a bomb or an x-ray, kill or cure children while they play.
I hate the word nice, nice is fake good, I should take my advice.
Superstition is not good, touch wood.
Does a gun serve any useful purpose except as a paper weight?
Skaters skate a figure of eight.
Self defence it was decided in the year four hundred is alright.
Make a preemptive strike, goodnight.
I am not quite so sure.
May peace and love endure.
Tich Ennis
16th August, 2017
God is always there when you look.
Otherwise a closed book.
Bad news they say comes in threes.
They don’t always speak the truth in times like these.
Tremendous obstacles may be overcome.
How long to kingdom come?
Acceptance may be the best way.
Tomorrow is another day.
Leave no stone unturned.
The traveller returned.
Seek and ye shall find.
Peace of mind.
You must really mean it, really do it.
Giving your all is all that’s to it.
Give yourself to what you do.
Then you know God is true.
God is self effacing, his message is be the same.
You will be glad he came.
This world lives in shame.
Who to blame?
God seeks no fame.
Do your best.
Life is a test.
Testing you.
Be true.
That’s what I should do.
Must I spell it out?
Do not doubt.
Half measures always fail.
True is the holy grail.
Its there waiting for you to find.
Make up your mind.
Its never too late until you’re dead.
Enough said.
I’ll take this as read.
To read means to understand, if you understand, then do.
How to be you.
Me too.
This poem could go on forever.
When will you understand, never?
If you understand then do.
I leave it to you.
Tich Ennis
14th August, 2017
Or attempting to. What am I? Who am I? Do I matter? If so to who or, much less, what? Are these irrelevant questions? If irrelevant, irrelevant to what? To what matters. What does matter? You. You matter to me. Do I matter to you? You who hear or read these words. Does it matter if I matter to you? It matters to me. Does it matter to you if you matter to me? I suppose so. It should. Who says? I do. Am I what I say and do? To a large extent yes. In fact that is all that matters about me. You too? Yes. Questions are limited. How, where, what, why, when and who. Am I defined in those terms and are those things all there are to say about me? For me read you. What is the most important question? Not what, that’s for sure. Why is the question, the supreme question. Why am I? Why are you? Why not? Why a pear, an apple, a blade of grass? Our environment. The environment from which we spring and of which we are a part. Self aware matter. Does matter matter? Yes. For a while. Our life is a while. We could not exist in material form except in a material world. Or universe or galaxy. Does matter last forever? No. It changes form. Will I or you last forever? No. Not in material form. Life is a life sentence. Hard labour. I mention that in passing. Life is a passing thing. Why and how are important, more than what. Reality is the essence of the real. I am my essence, you are yours. You are how you are what you are. I attempt to explain myself but explain you. A poor explanation. Another word for essence is spirit. When the spirit leaves the body we are dead. Dead to the world. We are no more. In the eyes of the world. We are our spirit. How we are. I am I. You are you. You are your spirit, me too. Does this matter? The word matter again. The soul of the thing. The thing I am, but more than a thing. What is my wish? That people not be treated as things. I or you. Anyone anywhere. Speaking for myself I know people have not much time for my longer pieces such as this. Unparagraphed now as I write. Should I care? Yes. About that? I don’t know. Should people care for each other? Yes. Who is the other? You. Me too. There are more questions than answers. Always. Here in this piece for example. The question why is all important. I must be talking to myself. You too. Have I answered those questions about myself? It seems not. I still don’t know. Do you? About you? Meanwhile I press on regardless. What have I said? I don’t matter, I am not matter, not a thing. If I matter to myself I am wrong. You matter. Who will read these words? Almost no one perhaps. Only you. That makes two. Me and you. A dream come true. Poets ask these questions and answer them better than I. Every man his own poet. We are part of a poem, you and I. The poem is the universe. Words are stars sprinkled in the sky. The question why. Maybe I will answer before I die.
I have a friend in hospital, maybe I will read him this. He will say it is too long. He is usually right. So long.
I read it to him. He said blog it. As is.
Tich Ennis
24th July, 2017
He made me. I let him down.
Into a hole in the ground.
The rest is history.
It is no mystery.
He trusted me.
I will exhume if I can.
To fulfill his plan.
God being God can rise again.
The question, when?
When I get down to it.
Should I do it?
I suppose so.
Here I go.
Call me mister Slow.
Now I know.
His mistake was mine.
It happens all the time.
Tich Ennis
26th July, 2017
Part of America was bought, is everything for sale?
Does money get you elected in the land of the Christmas sale?
Money may buy you health, what is looked up to, wealth?
Is everything about money, their comedians are funny.
Is money what its all about, death and taxes find you out.
What does it profit a man if he loses his soul, they fought to keep their country whole.
Oh land of striving which speaks of the free, your music means a lot to me.
Tich Ennis
23rd July, 2017
People think I’m waving when I smoke a cigarette, which is more or less all the time.
They wave back, does this line rhyme?
Some poet woman has a line, not waving but drowning.
Are you frowning?
Anyway, her poem is quite good.
I like it anyway, if you read it you would.
Stevie Smith is her name if memory serves me right.
It usually does, goodnight.
Tich Ennis
21st July, 2017
