Happy poem

When I tried to write a happy poem,

I realized my mem’ry was unprepared;

I had none atop my head--

I had to dig, and all

I found were dreams.

I’d my ineffable object (to which we all attach to one)

turning in my thoughts; and

I’d the faded photographs of forgotten feelings.

 

Now, I’m moreofa pitter-patter rainy boy,

I know,

than the flitter-flutter young son once

I was;

 

but I must’ve greatly understood joy,orat

least the feeling of it, once,

before I started chasing butterflies

and bumblebees.

 

Never I thought to pluck a perennial

and stick it on my head (and perhaps

you’d like to know:that

flowers’ petals often bunch in groups of primes,

so “loves me…”starts are often suicides), and butterflies

and bumblebees ought more to happen, than be

chased with nets or handbowls;

 

it’s stupid unless you

lure them on your pollen-headed perennial accent,

on which gratulation bombinates

for the hover of a servant worker-bee. Only

pretty are the wings of butterflies, silent and

accenting the accent in my hair;

 

and only when they are so wonderful

and common,          have

butterflies landed on my napping lids,

and fleeted before I killed them.

 

:Joys are best Platonic in nature--

unnoticed as itself, and sharing the same

property of precious, of all-things being

momentary.

:Joy is this acknowledged, and forgotten

in the moment that wished it'd lasted forever,

after it was over.