I give you what I have in posts For we are poor in other ways; We walk along the waterside And dream of nights, amid these days, Of multitude, and lassitude, And attitude, and power: A sun that shines on shoulders cold, A view atop the tower … Continue reading "Posts"
This will take some getting used to. Nothing looks the way it should; I guess change is worth embracing, Or it should be, when it's good -- Everything's in this weird font, now, With this vaguely shaded fill -- This will take some getting used to, And perhaps, I Never will
The few, short hours that we get To sit upon the dying grass, The days of sunlight soon to fade, As they, like we, are born to pass – Habitual endearing of Those close enough to plunder — And this, we’ve come to glorify; It sort of makes you wonder A song this morning played, … Continue reading "Spent Manic Blossoms"
She wrote often on intimate subjects; He obsessed often about them. So, to his mind, They were perfect for each other. And she lived in the very same city! So, he contrived to meet her; Fascinated with this beautiful woman Who wrote so passionately about Enjoying physical relations with men — Sex without relationships. So, … Continue reading "The Dating Blogger (A Cautionary Tale)"
So, I was here watching Schrödinger’s cat, Now it’s both dead and alive: How it has managed this, I do not know. Somehow, though, it did contrive So both to be and to not-be at once Putting poor Hamlet to shame: So the old Law of Non-Contradiction’s Broken, and I am to blame. So in … Continue reading "Schrödinger’s Cat"
I have no idea what I just wrote...
I wandered into poetry Since little else made sense; For all the clots and retinues Grew steadily more dense – But here, in this reality, I’ve found it to be true That where our finest speech does naught, The slightest touch Might do (“I Wandered Into Poetry” – 7-17-2015)
He let imagination play And spill across each fevered page; Of life spent at a breakneck pace, Of love and hate and Sex and rage And peaceful moments that would touch The hearts of any who might see; But wonders now, and over-much, If all of it’s Not vanity He wanted what he wrote to … Continue reading "On The Transience and Vanity of Being A Writer"
They wonder why he writes so much, That there’s so few will ever read; And what this strange compulsion is, This all-embracing need — But long he travelled through the shadows Of the vale of night: He first wrote just to breathe, But now he breathes So he can write (“The Poet’s Fate” – … Continue reading "The Poet’s Fate"