Category: My Poetry
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What I Do Not Do
What I Do Not Do (*but will occasionally make an exception for cats). Cogito, Ergo Sum
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Huckster Jive
Huckster Jive Carny calls and huckster jive. Gaudy colours stab the heavy air Holding up the night’s black curtain With fingers of smokey neon light That dance neath scattered clouds. Stars wink with knowing glances, Seeming to conspire with Barkers, shills and clowns Hatching their intrigues and their schemes To part the marks from their…
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Just A Thought
Just a Thought Preface (Setting The Stage) It was there just a heart-beat agoDancing on the tip of my tongue,On the very edge of coalescingInto the semblance of a ghostAlmost taking form. Prologue (Get On With It) It was there and then it was not.And it was good, so very, very good,Good enough to shake…
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Appropriation
APPROPRIATION How discouraging it is To stumble on your latest piece, An idea you thought was yours, unique, The perfect bon mot, the crowning touch Was nothing but the purloined work of another. What can I say that has not been said before? If I, in my arrogance, place two letters together, What guarantee is…
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Memory
Memory The imprint of that stone in my hand Is still with me. It links me to a past I cannot imagine, To a present I cannot grasp And to a future I will never see. Looking at this stone reminds me Of many things I had forgotten; The great and the small, Galaxies and…
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Huckster Jive
Huckster Jive Rainbow colours touch the falling gloom As fingers of smokey light Dance on the scattered clouds above. Stars wink in knowing glances, Seeming to conspire with The barkers and the clowns Hatching their intrigues and their schemes To part the marks from their money. And all the while the trucks arrive Unload their…
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DAMMIT:
Dammit: More Words About Words “Scattering words like careless pebbles Beside the worn and weary path”. NO! NO! NO! A trope too often used And laden with too much baggage To be of any use here. Discard. Delete. Words are the coin of my realm And legal tender in this land. The worth of this…
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Prose Disguised As Poetry
Prose Disguised As Poetry All this time I’ve been fooling myself. What I thought was poetry Was simply prose in pieces, Phrase-able chunks of idle fancy Reduced to tired sound-bites That looked pretty on paper. As poetry, It ranks a pretty solid F-. Although, I am my harshest critic. When looked at through the filter…
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How?
How? How does one become a poet? Where does this arrogance arise That I would propose such a thing? It is a label bestowed by others, not mine And fraught with much unpleasant baggage. Effete and dilatorious dilettantes Playing at sophistication Spouting free-verse nonsense Only to become the fools Consumed by their own passions. But…
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Nonsense
Nonsense All I do is write about writing, A task I find most inviting. I will stay at my work Tho you call me a jerk And continue my Palimpsest citing.
Palimpsest 