Poesy

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You make autonomy a dirty word.

Such an attitude is just absurd.

You're about the biggest name in town.

And underneath your wimple is a crown.

3-14-13

Poesy

Why do I write poesy, whyever?

The goal of Keats was beauty. So unreal.

Millay was unrequited love

And promiscuity.

And everything was Brooke,

But mostly love.

Did only Keats have purpose

In his whole endeavor?

Who can say what poesy is for?
The aims of its creators,

Or nothing much at all.

Why do I write poesy, whyever?

Guilty rhythms slinking down an alley

In the darkness after midnight. Dreams

And fantasies and phrases from

The pilot of my soul.

An immortal nothingness! Like god.

I don't have music,

And my rhymes are old.

Will I write until I perish?

I have nothing more to say.

I was done in 1998.

I'm a zombie living after death.

3-14-14

 

A Brief Goodbye

Like a fly upon the water,

You're floating out to sea.

Your flattery goes with you,

That never captured me.

Your rebukes and censure

And simple cruelty

Are just a little past

And painful memory.

So much for my attempts

To live like poetry!

3-13-14

Ambivalence

I read my poems sometimes, and it seems

There is no joy like this outside of dreams.

At other times, a brogan to the soul!

The gems transmuted back into some coal.

What shame to think these poems have been seen.

Embarrassment is painful, sharp and keen.

How pitiful I am to write such verses!

Good poets die unread. The grave disperses

Their dust to the conclusion of their fate.

Others simply sit alone and wait.

Poesy! Of beautiful intent.

Nothing ventured, no embarrassment.

3-13-14

A Metaphor

Often waking up delights me.

I'm alive and I am here.

For an hour sparrows sing

Within my wanton soul.

Then the castle crumbles at

Its base and its foundation.

Stone and rocks and pebbles,

Once the battlements, collapse

And strew themselves around a fetid moat.

The drawbridge weakens. Naked

I'm beset again and sad.

3-13-14

Sparrows

Sparrows flock and flutter up the flue,

Coming out the chimney like brown smoke.

And at the hearth inside the house, warm love

Like fluid in a tank where fishes swim,

Beckons them return. There is no fire,

Just cold ash and coals behind the grate.

I cannot judge people! They elude

The understanding of my intuition,

Escaping its circumference, the ones

I love the most least worthy of a love.

But him! Whose kindly warmth lights up my soul

And lets me know what love is. She declared

I'm using her. But only if the end
Of every conversation is to fuck.

It is not, as far as I'm concerned.

And if it is, the world is as it seems.

And I never understood the world.

3-13-14