I Talk Too Much

I talk too much, I always have,
Much to my family’s misery;
The rare days that I’m quiet are
When they can see the best of me

And so I took up blogging — writers
Are forgiven monologues —
To write of common things, and see
The glory in the underdogs

And yet, I have a real life, too,
With work and bills and banks and such,
And a long-suffering wife who knows
Just like my dad, I talk too much

Aging

I do not seek the music of violence,
For I know only too well that
The world will bring it to me, anyway,
And too soon.

For so long, my eyes have been unclear;
For so many years, have I strained to see —
This is the dim mirror of my regret,
These are once new tools grown useless.

Somewhere, hidden from light and sound,
A boy sits, fresh-faced, expectant:
He calls to me as from a distant room,
He bids me to bring him his promised life.

These are not negative thoughts:
This is the way Reality smells,
Like too familiar fabric, well used,
Where rain and stain are just events, not

Misfortunes

Snapshot: Pecan Orchard

The aged have seen off many years,
The wise ones understand —
The orchard’s slumbering, and cold,
As is the land —

I wish that I bore other fruit,
But from this, there’s no fleeing —
The tree that I was born to be
I’ll end up

Being

Self-Portrait B

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(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