Self-Portrait B

The management of this site would like to disavow any knowledge. Of any kind. Thank you.

(Originally published May 1, 2015 – Owen)

I lose my temper easily
In traffic and in lines;
If thoughts were misdemeanours
I would owe a lot in fines

I like to be alone, but then
At times I’m too verbose:
When guessing people’s thoughts, I
Frequently am not too close

I’m not that much to look at,
I’m sporadically depressed:
And some attempts at levity
Fall very flat, at best

I am an epileptic, and
A husband and a father;
I am an actuary and
A poet and a bother

I write quite quickly, when I
Have a little time to spare:
And I imbibe caffeine so much
That people stop and stare

I will be fifty-three years old
In four weeks to the day:
And after all this time, no doubt
I’m stuck
Being
This way

At Last The Doorway

A threadbare carpet, dim and musty walls,
A few stray lightbulbs left to flicker on,
An emptiness as tangible as touch,
And something like an orange-blossom scent,
As measuredly, unsteadily I step
To reach at last the doorway. There I pause,
For knowing who is on the other side,
I breathe in my surroundings, deep and slow,
And wish my character was not my fate —
I wish my character
Was not

My fate

Constrast and Counterpoint

Across the lake, the crying of the birds
Within my head, the emptiness of words

The winter with it’s promise soon to come
The lonely cold inside that leaves me numb

The sunrise spilling truth for those who see
The darkness of my own hypocrisy

The world is glory, magic and surprise
And I’m no one I even recognize

This Is Where I Live

This is where I live,
This is where I go,
This is what I see,
This is what I know.

Maybe it’s not much,
Leaf and tree and fall;
Yet, though I’ve lived long,
I don’t know it all.

This is why I drive.
This is why I roam:
I must understand
And take in my home,

So that I may love,
So that I may give —
This is all I am,
This is where
I live