Graveyard for Poets

Graveyard for Poets

A poet who grows old

is carried on bare shoulders of skeptics.

No one thinks he wrote a lick.

His name unknown in a world that knows

the names of all big stars.

He’s not one of them

so he goes to sleep on a starry night

never to write another love story

about the woman crying by his bed

her umbrella weeps in harmony.

Dare

My lips are blistered and my mind is scrambled with thoughts of my many years of living. I no longer remember things as thought they happened yesterday. The things I remember the most are feelings or behaviors of my youth. I remember the wrongs I committed, there were many. They were wrongs against other people, my disregard for the feelings of others, my sarcastic bites, the lack of reasonable thought for friends and family. Most of all I remember my narcissistic apathy and how I impressed no one, no one.

Now the winds of self deprecation have wrinkled my skin, torn at my ego, thrown me the bone of death, and sank me into a tank of depression. As a kid I remember seeing older people hunched over, staring at the sidewalk, and impervious to those around them. Say hello to many and receive only a churl’s reply. Now I understand the world as sometimes seen through the eyes of the aged. The fact that you split a fingernail is non essential information. Your son’s soccer practice is too much brain exercise. And the fact that your daughter finally got an A+ in English is like a rash on your inner thighs. Perhaps I exaggerate, but for anyone over seventy aches and pains take precedence.

Depression claws at the dirt outside my window demanding that I open up and let it into my life. I have before and it always results in a breakdown. Very shrewd and convincing snake this emotion whispering reasons for death, begging you to strap a rope around your neck and climb a chair. “Why not,” it says, “no one gives a shit. No one thinks you’re worth a shit.” Sometimes I believe this dark creature. After all, who listens to an old man? Who will miss the old guy hardly anyone knows?

So you have life by the ass? You don’t. After you have learned the dishonesty of friendship, the misrepresentation of politics, cynicism of love, and the pain of dying, you will understand the opposite is true. Life has you by the ass and will never release its hold.

I’m being negative you say, perhaps. Live, grow, love, and wait. I dare you.

Nothing to Say

Nothing to Say

What do you say when you’re out of words?

The dead horse won’t move

Phoenix won’t rise

like god above fluming ashes.

A hotel with only vacancies

a voice above the ocean’s roar

unheard unseen unknown

with no dreams sleep is barren.

A swinging sign

broken arm in the wind

for sale to no one

words cannot pay

for my rent or food

desperation is a lonely friend

time a lonely enemy

death the ultimate home for words.

Nothing to Say

 

 

What do you say when you’re out of words?

The dead horse won’t move

Phoenix won’t rise

like god above fluming ashes.

A hotel with only vacancies

a voice above the ocean’s roar

unheard unseen unknown

with no dreams sleep is barren.

A swinging sign

broken arm in the wind

for sale to no one

words cannot pay

for my rent or food

desperation is a lonely friend

time a lonely enemy

death the ultimate home for words.

The Last Flower Petal

Black night snow licking

at my toes

daddy’s dead.

The trees bend in reverence

for his passing soul

his corpse still haunts me

quiet and still like a Quaker’s prayer.

I watched six men labor at his coffin

tugging him to an empty mouth

of dirt and snow

I still cry today for my naiveté

I did not know the man

my creator and chief.

I bow now in reverence of his dream

mine to keep like a flower

in an ancient bible

I am God

Standing far away

the world looks good

shaved and showered

clean cut and blue

If you stand on a canyon’s edge

words escape you

the awesome and impotence

beyond your power

thus is the god of my soul

I am amazed at a million years

a million tears a million wars

still I stand as the Monarch