Poem By David SmithWhite

With stars in their heaven, and stars in the sky,
their orbit unproven but who can deny,
the dazzle and lustre, the breath-taking sigh,
the frisson and fluster as they idle by.

Fame is the sea that boils and steams,
with plunging emotions and dives to extremes.
Fame is at depth a peril to plumb.
The facemask filling as fingers go numb.

Fame is the sea in an ocean of dreams,
of mal de mer motion and half thought out schemes.
Fame is a cloud in a warm piquant sky,
elusive as sunbeams and fleeting as lies.

Fame is a river of eddies and streams.
It babbles in concert with unconscious themes.
Fame is a breath, a heartbeat, and drum,
the throb and full promise of new worlds to come.

The gases of greenhouse, and all that imply:
storm force eleven or drought far too dry.
Stars in their heaven, and stars in the sky,
gather to gabble on omens awry.

With stars in their heaven, and stars in the sky.
Oscars in chevrons with bright leery eye.
Too many raves on bourbon and rye.
Too many parties, too drunk and too high.

Loved by the leeches, the hack's pulpy reems,
tell of bodies abundant, best fashion esteemed;
lathered on beaches with lotions and creams,
tanned and naked like new souls redeemed.

They lie in dark ambush in packs or in teams,
and shoot hazy pictures with laser like beams.
The gathered tsunami is just what it seems:
fame is a whirlwind where spin reigns supreme.

Stars in their heaven, and stars in the sky,
where giving's devalued by what you can buy.
Full frontal living like gods on the sly.
Yet all is forgiven when falling stars die.

Fame is death for the private being.
Fame is the herald for public seeing.
Fame is the drug of poisonous excess.
It can kill you with kindness and drowning success.

Fame is the sailor near ship-wrecked on reef,
who escapes to survive by his thin skin of teeth.
But for an arm or leg or any spare limbs,
fame is the pool where many sharks swim.

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