a small, black notebook
on a stand by the bed
filled with poems
that are not quite ready
like pieces of seaglass
with sharp, pointed edges
thrown back to the sea
to be tumbled till smooth
like hard, green tomatoes
saved from the frost
sitting on the window sills
to be warmed by the sun
maybe a rough cut diamond
waiting to be shaped
and highly polished
until it reflects the light perfectly
I don’t
believe in ghosts
but
sometimes they haunt me anyway
I
explain to them that they are just manifestations
of my
sub conscientious mind
but at
times they insist in trying to terrorize me.
So,
having no choice
I tell
them to fuck off.
Like I
said, I don’t believe in ghosts
and I am
trying to get them not to believe in me.
I
journey to the ocean several times each year
and look
out to my ancestral home
although
I can no longer go back there.
It’s
been years since my ancestors lived there…
over
three and a half billion years.
They
came out of the water and developed lungs and limbs
and
other complicated biological systems
which no
longer allow us to return to the sea.
On some
level I guess I miss swimming around in the primordial soup.
It was a
simpler time.
On this
early November morn
I walk
along the sandy shore
my senses
seem to be reborn
On this
early November morn
upon a
path extremely worn
where
many folks have walked before
On this
early November morn
I walk along the sandy shore
A lone
goose frantically flew across the morning sky
loudly
proclaiming its presence
and I
wonder was it lost
or left
behind as the flock flew South?
Was it
banished for not being a team player,
for not
pulling its own weight?
Maybe it
was a rebel trying to start its own flock.
Maybe it
decided not to go South this year.
Maybe it
was just out exploring its surroundings, sightseeing.
Perhaps
it was getting in a little exercise before the other geese were awake.
Maybe it
was a forward scout plotting out a flight plan for the rest of the flock.
Maybe it’s
just my mind overthinking things.
Maybe I
really didn’t need that third cup of coffee.
I tried
selling poetry
door to
door
long
before it was given away free
on the
internet to anonymous people.
I had
only one client
a
retired English professor,
a widow
who lived alone.
She would
read my work
in
exchange for me stacking firewood.
She would
offer her critique
in
exchange for me staying and eating supper with her.
She
would provide her assessment
in
exchange for sitting and drinking Scotch
with her
while she watched game show contestants on TV
and
corrected their grammar.
That was
long ago.
She is
dead now.
I still
write poetry only now I give it away for free
on the internet to anonymous people.
we all
are waiting for a bed
both day
and night we bide our time
a
peaceful place to rest our head
some
wait in anger, some with dread
some so
comfortably sublime
we all
are waiting for a bed
we think
about the lives we’ve lead
our
brains are working overtime
a
peaceful place to rest our head
no one
can say what lies ahead
within
this present paradigm
we all
are waiting for a bed
we
ponder all the things we’ve said
the
mountains that we’ve had to climb
a
peaceful place to rest our head
we think
of better days instead
when we
were young and in our prime
we all
are waiting for a bed
a peaceful place to rest our head
