Don't you see

 

Stop. I have this postal scene, don't you see?
from a Paris visit an age ago.
Still un-sent--what I witnessed, let it be.
Recalls an ideal I would have us know.

I cried that last visit, felt left bereft--
moved so what I'd seen and to death I loved--
could not this memory . . . my heart is cleft.
Imagine you had seen this scene of doves.

My eyes now weaker than those days before.
Dreams and hopes did not die with careless ease.
This postcard I kept live my days of yore.
The pursuit and pact I've never ceased.

End my hold thus my mind to spread this view?
Alas, now to share I've none, or close  to few.

We needs be just

Flawed genius is ever our od'ous fact,

so much we abhor sans grace-giving tact.

Oh those figures, their image our envy,

but for deeds they've done--by each and every.

Lance his wins, in spite his half-hooded man,

final denial's failure--False! Now banned.

Wilt in his day, his tall staff was his stilt, 

could scarce decline a horizontal tilt.

Billy boy too his loins bowled him over,

playing as dogs do--ever the rover.

Heidegger would be great, ideas to note, 

but for apology? we miss his quote.

Accept the highs, must we low parts forgive.

We needs cut bad from good, with a just sieve.