(The Art of Peace)

Between the world of things
And you,
There’s magic intervening.
It supercharges everything
With a magic
We call Meaning.
Human Spirit’s the magician,
Unique to every soul,
And to lade the world
With Meaning
Is the Human Spirit’s
Synonyms for Meaning
Make a lengthy list:
Sense, import,
Essence, value, gist.
Call it intelligence,
Let us just use
Meaning and
The Meaning Making arts.
A poet is a Maker,
Making meanings
Out of air;
For any common item
His role is to compare
The thing to some
Never thought before...
His titles,
Common items from a
World of things galore:
Acorn, Cricket, Butterfly,
Crocus, Rock, Worm, Bee,
A Lake, a River, a Fine Red Hen,
Violins, the Open Sea.
These he loads
With inference
They normally don’t bear,
To reveal a world
Of Meaning
Of which we’re unaware.
But there’s no need
To be a poet;
We all do it
Every minute,
Examining each moment
For the values
That are in it.
These we swap
With friends and family
To construct
And share them
For consensus
To build societies.
Thus Human Spirit
Ranges forth,
Hopefully and brave,
On a quest of
From the cradle
To the grave.
To Science
The world is
Mere groping
Energy and stuff.
But has it groped
A million eons
Just to give us birth?
If so, it’s then our duty,
As the creature
With a soul,
To thank this
Pointless cosmos,
By acting out
Our role
And giving it a Meaning
That makes it
So much more,
One it never had, perhaps,
But was groping for.
So the finest poets
Earn their laurels,
And the lesser
Do their best,
But it’s every soul’s
Every Human Spirit’s
Yes, we all use
Meaning Magic
From the wisest
To the least.
WHO... put Magic
In this
But beyond the art
Of coining concepts
From the world
Of common things
To glorify
A Fine Red Hen or
Human Wakenings,
More than the art of
Cosmic naming
Or taming mysteries,
Even beyond the
Art of Meanings...
This is the
Art of Peace.