Ditty Of An Existential Misfit

Oh, my! 

My precious little world 

Never stops weighing 

Heavily on my mind— 

 

Methinks it might be 

Time to lighten 

The load a bit 

And stop being 

 

Such a heavy- 

Weight light- 

Headed dimwit 

All the time— 

 

On second thought 

Though, perhaps it’s best 

I procrastinate as usual, 

And wait for the cocks’ 

 

Crow first thing on the morrow— 

Yes, yes I’ll surely do it then, 

With no inkling of regret 

Or shameful sorrow!

 

Frugal Poetic Fragility

Apart from his writing, 

Which always seemed to stop

Short of going somewhere, 

He spent most of his time 

Wandering from used bookstore 

To bookstore looking 

For cheap editions, till one day 

He happened upon a slender volume 

Of his he had forgotten 

He’d once inscribed and gifted 

To an elder, much better- 

Known poet whose work he admired 

Almost as much as his own, 

And which now lay half-buried 

Under a stack of thicker, more 

Impressive-looking tomes of poetry, 

All penned by that very same distinguished 

Gentleman poet who--would you have it?-- 

Just happened to be quite dead:

Had he too, wasted his life?

 

Just Perpetual Lies That Blind, Poet

Now set to fall on your face after all

These years of chasing that

 

Elusive golden mean, don’t you go without

Telling yourself you knew

 

Exactly what you were up to again. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stillborn Comprehension

You too have listened to many 

Who spoke in riddles without 

 

Understanding a word, not 

Even the pregnant 

 

Silences left behind 

In their absence.

 

 

 

It's A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World, Is It Not?

If it is indeed 

Natural as Heraclitus says 

 

It is, for man to know 

His own mind and be 

 

Sane, why is it so mind- 

Boggling maddening 

 

Hard to tell who is 

And who is not?