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.