One Tree

One lonesome tree

Gives such welcome shade to me

One lonesome girl with grass stained knees

With her book, finds quiet and peace

Still working on the next section of Small Cuts. Sorry for the delay! Hopefully I will have it for next Friday.

Twenty One

Her blue black hair curves to the line of her chin

A stark contrast to a pair of bright blue eyes

She is tall and willowy, only accentuated

By black tights and a short skirt

She reads Kafka and pretends to enjoy it

Writes overbearing poetry with bloated metaphors

It is 1987 and she is 21 years old

The age of majority

But young enough that everything

Seems as serious as a heart attack

Diverse Verse – Poetry For a Cause

Sometime last year (memory not what it used to be…) poet Richard Archer asked for submissions to what would become a third volume of verse from poets across the globe to benefit Cancer Research, UK. I offered my favorite poem: Just Burn and was delighted to be accepted for the publication. Please consider buying this marvelous collection and supporting a most worthy cause! Purchase the book here.

My contribution: Just Burn

Why do I write in the light,
When the dark is so intoxicating?
Just to keep up appearances?
Do I continue to smile though I’m dying?
How do I find my voice?
Amidst a cacophony of screaming?
I don’t want your self help diatribe.
I don’t want your power of positive thinking.

I can’t hear myself think,
Let alone pen a work of distinction.
I need a strong, stiff drink,
But that’s only self medication.
And what’s it all mean anyway?
When nothing’s going to give satisfaction?
Just a book full of ink spots,
That sits on a shelf gathering desolation.

How do I come to grips,
With my own profound unhappiness?
I’m nothing but thunderstorms and anger.
Keep your sunshine and sweetness.
I have no more words of encouragement.
It’s cruelty, competition, unfairness.
The theme for the day is belligerence.
It’s outworking displays it’s aggressiveness.

So save your kindly comments,
And your gestures of reverent concern.
For into the fires of failure,
I let the manuscripts burn.
Lick the curling hundreds of pages,
Kindle the books, at each turn,
Throw gas on the conflagration,
And I’m gone nevermore to return…