Hard Offering From A Despondent Nihilist

 

No matter what

You feel nothing will

Tender the something

You lack.

 

 

Tongue In Cheek, The Poet Addresses His Other Self

 

Janus, so many poems

 

I know you know 

It would take me two 

Lifetimes to share 

Them all with you— 

 

So forgive me 

If I end up choosing 

Only the choicest few— 

 

On the other hand, I’m sure 

It’ll come as no surprise 

They’re all about 

 

My reluctance to chew 

And spit out—what else?— 

 

A most vexing attachment

To a double-faced you. 

 

 

 

 

 

Seizing The Day (Phoenix In Distress)

 

Disoriented by shining

 

Myriad stars, rise from

Under such dizzying array

To the occasion:

 

Do not

Wait to see some fabled

Celestial body falling

 

To make a wish you

Hope complements

This very day, burn it

 

To ashes straightaway.

 

 

 

The First And Last Time I Knew I Wanted To Be A Poet

 “At ease disease, there’s a fungus among us.” 

---childhood taunt of the 1950s in the USA

 

 

It must have been when I was still—

As they say—wet behind the ears and thought

 

It was something I could do every day

And still look at myself

 

In the mirror without turning away, how

Could I know then

 

What I sense at last is true now?

Poetry remains

 

A lingering disease

That once takes root

 

In the budding brain,

Never knows well

 

Enough to stop sprouting

Wings and dares

 

Fly away.

 

 

Grave Autumn Harbinger

After the cleansing 
Downpour, the dust- 

Free last glistening 
Raindrop left trembling 

On the leaf at the end 
Of the branch 

That will not break hesitates, 
Yet remains unwavering 

In the anticipation 
Of something clearly 

Momentous waiting 
To happen so that it can 

Let go and return—wasted?— 
To dust once more.