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
Tag: Self-Portrait
Self-Portrait B
(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
To share is human:
Misinterpretation
I love to misinterpret things;
It something I do well —
I’ve done it many, many times:
Far more than I could tell
It’s something of a habit, or
A signature, perhaps —
And so, I am like time itself:
We both just
Always
Lapse
To share is human:
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
To share is human:
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
To share is human:
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
To share is human:
Dull
In real life, I am really dull.
So I made a persona:
A poet who goes everywhere –
To Spain, to Arizona —
Who plumbs the depths of human heart,
And gauges those in power;
Who sings upon a concert stage
And climbs the highest tower —
Instead of just some bald guy, who
By accident of birth
Was made to say things rhythmically
His days upon the earth
To make a world of sound and word
That’s rich, alive, and full —
Instead of being what he is:
That’s really,
Really
Dull
To share is human:
Self-Portrait
Metal built and long twisted
Ladders out of safety and indolence
Stretching towards life-sustaining substance
To help those that would grow and to
Escape the flames
Always overhead
