A Prediction

A Prediction

If you can't write music,

Poetry or books

Already, then you

Really never wished to.

You go to school to learn

How to write a song,

When the song you want to write

Was born somewhere inside you.

A vestige of your genius

Comes early in your youth,

And burgeons as you grow,

But never changes.

Talk about maturity.

It's only growing older,

Slowly giving up

And being sad.

But if at 67

Another blossoming

Of your gift occurs,

The Muse is breathing.

10-8-13

After Reading A Few Of My Poems

Either I'm deluded

In a poetaster's dream,

Or else these songs are excellent,

Exactly as they seem.

Every captain loves his ship

And every child a kitten,

And every lover loves his love

The moment he is smitten.

The poems are not beautiful,

But smooth like cream, and thinky,

Nothing to be savored twice,

Occasionally kinky.

10-9-13

 

Kitty

I want to love you, Kitty.

You're are gentle, sad and needy.

You cry for love.

I give you very little.

Can each of us distinguish

Between pleasure and affection?
Is there any difference?
Is one superior?
The planet has no values.

Men eradicate them all.

And Kitty, in your normalcy,

You anger me with love.

There is no good but bad, and good

Is beauty, warmth and charm.

The ugly, sick and old are damned.

Even good men die.

10-9-13

Truth

In the hell of truth

Where it is searing to express it!

God is love

Like mold beneath the sink.

Insanity and madness

Never were a sanctuary.

No refuge for the hopeless,

Neither madness, truth or love.

Senility! The last disease of all.

10-9-13

Overview

Does everybody tell the truth?

Do you expect them to?

A typical American,

My grammar is for fools.

Perhaps my rhymes are accurate

And my rhythms true.

The beauty of Millay and Keats

Obviate a substance.

I couldn't write for melodies.

The syllables don't fit.

Larry Hart was perfect, and his

Rhymes were made for time.

10-9-13