Joe Mama

by Ian Benway

Nov 6, 2019 – 2 min read

Image of: starry night

Faithful stars light faithless things,
And for my mind, the light still sings,
For questions the sky thus brings,
But answers forget to follow.
And on these musing nights I feel,
Wrapped in wonder of what is real,
One question is raised of utmost zeal,
The query: Who is Joe?

This I wonder, and with no end;
The veiled identity I ought defend,
Though curiosity thus distend,
Which precludes a swift dismissal.
I’m now engrossed by ardent plea
To comprehend who Joe may be.
If this man be bound by sea,
His identity remains abyssal.

I search and quest to no effect,
For such a man I can’t detect,
But I remain without neglect
In immense confusion.
For now I lie upon the grass,
As thoughts like these harshly pass,
And I find within, alas!—
A satisfied conclusion.

Those who ask Who is Joe?
At that comment surely know
What we all must undergo—
The human condition.
Joe—of course!—is no man,
But actually a moral plan,
A metaphor of what can:
A philosophy ambition.

Now I see that Joe is not
A product of what jokes begot,
But rather what humans sought
Beheld among history.
Joe is a symbol of what we want,
What humans dare often jaunt,
Yet to fearless seem to daunt:
An aimless mystery.

Also Joe Mama haha gottem.