Alas Not Millay

Alas Not Millay

Poems by Millay

Are candles in the night,

But songs of cynicism

Are easier to write.

I wished to change my style

So when my songs are read,

At least by me, I'll love them.

Those days of love are dead.

There's magic in me still

But not for gentle phrases,

Only for the hatred

That pushes and amazes.

Topics in my soul

For peaceful songs are spare.

But subjects out of anger

Are legion, always there,

Just for certain people,

And just for certain things.

I cannot divorce them.

How the pencil sings

And rushes cross the paper.

I never pause and grope

For words. I hate the poem

When it's finished. Hope!

Perhaps there is a hope,

A black and crystal kind.

Hope is just a corner

No one else can find.

 

Remembered Books

Sitting in the squalor on a

Humid summer night,

I'd like to write some comments

On the books that I have read.

However it has been so long

Since I read anything,

The novels are a phantom,

And the poetry is dead.

I do not like the Sonnets,

Ah but salted through the plays

Are people, moods and insights

And infrequently a phrase.

7-16-13

Charlie, As Was

People who play doctor

And really think they know

Make themselves an enemy

Who finally lets them go.

Charlie, once a patient,

Did exactly that,

A seer of the mortal.

Now I have a cat.

Let me say this right,

Complete, without distortions.

Charlie was a s- hole

Or megalith proportions.

 

A Psychology

It isn't that you're right.

It isn't that you're good.

It's simply that you're doing

Someone else's should.

This is how the brain

In its mystery

Functions on this planet.

God is history.

Not only so for people,

But all of life as well.

You can talk a creature

All the way to hell.