The Defeatist

Regrets

Even those I love dislike my poems.

It lets me know what kind of fool I am.

The kind that since the age of 17

Kept swimming up the river, and got old.

Keats who never needed inspiration

Had a wealth of family and friends,

And wrote them all interminable letters.

I lost a correspondent doing that.

I've been loved, been dumped and have rejected

People in my life. They're gone away.

And now it doesn't matter anymore.

Like Edith Piaf, I have no regrets.

I'll die in Denny's writing on a pad.

Like Keats I'll die believing I have failed.

To hell with god! That such a man as Keats

Be carried through the lych gate thinking that!

 

Goodness

I'd like to think that goodness pays.

Murdoch: “Good for nothing.”
It sometimes pays when good men feel.

Evil has a heart.

Evil wins, and good men die.

Everybody dies!

A glorious ecstasy of death!

What idiots call a “rapture”.

12-1-12

 

Goodness

And as for good. It's what no one can do.

You cannot break the glass or breach the wall

Surrounding everyone. And gratitude

Is the very most you will achieve.

And gratitude like satellites in orbit

Over time decays and falls to earth

Where it is forgotten. If remembered

It's with resentment, petty and obliged.

My Home

To have a little home

With someone waiting there

Who doesn't want to leave,

Not for anywhere.

A couple trees in front,

A lawn of grass in back,

Three sleepy playful kittens,

Yellow, striped and black.

No grate, no hearth, no fire -

A kitchen always clean,

The bedroom where we sleep

That's simply never seen.

A postman who is happy

And laughs at all my jokes -

Free for no one visits -

Just a couple folks.

 

My Letter

My letter to the world which won't write back -

After spending 67 years

Jumping down my throat at every word

You did not like – so what do you expect?

Normalcy and trust? And B.F. Skinner.

The Defeatist

Like Keats who sat and read

The negative reviews,

A priest who gives his love

To a church of empty pews,

A lonely cat that's sick

In the woods at night,

A guru who laments

Nothing in the world is right,

So I fashion poems,

A miserable romance,

Knowing in advance

They do not have a chance.

If you like my poems, I have collections on Amazon, both paperback and Kindle.  To see them, type Joseph Hart Poetry in Amazon's search bar.