I shall write into a grave

Six Books

All my soul in a set of books

Of already published poems -

From long ago – but not so long -

Some less than 20 years -

Gathered together at the time

Of publication (little mags)

And kept in folders all these years,

Now becoming books -

Six books of 60 poems each.

I cannot write like that today.

I cannot duplicate the past.

Some are old, most are crazy,

A few display the sudden flash

Articulate, succinct

Of the poems I am writing now.

These six books when they are done

Will be my consolation,

Pleasure, comfort, promise that

I will not be forgotten.

But Jesus! Why so many styles?

Am I a small Picasso?

Fights

I shall never win a fight.

I can't be alone

Despite who claims the victory

With him displeased with me,

Whether I am right or wrong,

Or only think I am.

I must have favor in his eyes

Before I go asleep.

Almost Like Before

I just got the manner back -

Though such a subtle thing -

Head and heart united

In a small and little man

Who doesn't know a thing.

My poesy is like a moth -

Grey dust upon its wings -

Moths, completely harmless,

Attracted to a light.

I'm writing like I use to right.

I thought it couldn't happen.

Honesty – the soul of life,

The heart of poetry.

I don't want to be like Keats

If I can be myself.

 

I shall write into a grave

I shall write into a grave

As I am writing now.

I found a faucet in my soul.

The songs are coming out.

Not brilliant, wise or erudite -

No guesses at great truths -

Probably confessional -

And possibly some phrases.

A little beast kept in a box

For years too small for it,

Found a way to nibble out,

Escape its prison – small and bleached,

Dwarfed and limping, without hair -

A little larvae born.

I am thinking crazy now.

I see things as they are -

Not as they're supposed to be,

Presumed to be, expected.

I see nothing anywhere

But what I always see.

So many voices in my head!

Which of them is me?

All of them? It cannot be.

They contradict each other.