Minimalists' Major Plight

Where we retire to 
At night speaks volumes 
Of why 

We write small 
Poems constantly 
In search of all 

Encompassing light.

X Marks The Spot, Debaucher

Somewhere near the whereabouts 
Of the last poem 
You ravished and abandoned 
For lack of a moral compass, 
You’re sure to come across the future 
Ruins of the next one, marked 
By a small white bloody sheet 
Begging you to be oh so gentle 
This time around. 

Fait Accompli

We know all too well now 
Our precious words were 
Never really ours, no more 

Than our children were, who 
Have dutifully stolen away 
And taken what remains 

Of our past youth with them, 
While we were looking 
The other way.

Cartesian Livelihood

Trying hard 

To write 
As if 

Your life depends 
On finding 

Just the right 
Word every time 

You think you are 
Going to lose it. 

Aura Obscura

To sense the poet all

Alone and still

Around him reverberating,

A void resembling nothing

 

At odds with his ends.