On The Transience and Vanity of Being A Writer

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 shine,
The brilliance of a million suns;
But now, he simply wants to write
Some thoughts that you’d read
More than once


 

(“On The Transience and Vanity of Being A Writer” – 7-11-2015)

So Familiar

So Familiar

A life led by blind desire,
Lurching toward the funeral pyre

Happenstance spun into meaning,
Private times spent posing, preening

Strings of words on worthless air,
Tableaus struck with no one there

Emptiness and vanity,
Sheltered by insanity

Carved from cells once formed by bliss:

So familiar

All of this


 

(“So Familiar” – 10-23-2014)

Raining It In

It’s raining where I work today
But I’ll show up and earn my pay
Or try to: try to prove my worth
As though each day was a new birth

But through this pane of glass I see
The wild world in front of me
And hear the booming thunder roll
All things beyond my weak control

The vanity that is my life
The constant struggle, strain and strife
That daily I myself surround
Like rain, as it comes tumbling down

How desolate this spot is now…

How desolate this spot is now.
I walk around the emptiness –
What once was meant as life support
Lies dead among the quietness
 
And as the summer shadows move,
I hear the evening start its song;
The sun is headed home to rest,
And I should head home too,
Ere long

= = = = =

(I actually took this photo, which is a rarity. – Owen)

On An Old Filling Station

Out here, abandoned in the grass,
A vintage filling station:
Where many sat preoccupied
By labor or vacation

As fuel was pumped and windows washed
Supporting life’s-won fruits
To aid the modern family
In nuclear pursuits.

Out here, abandoned in the grass,
And desolate to view,
The end of every precious thing
Once loved for being
New

Emptiness and Echoes

So accustomed to noise are we,
Our minds provide it
In our rare moments of silence.

When we cannot feel the world anymore,
We attempt to become the world,
A process fraught with anxiety,
And rife with chaos.

It is the silence we fear:
Discovering only then
What we truly believe the world to be,
Past our lies and our slogans:

Emptiness and echoes,
Regrets and recriminations,
And a desire, at all costs,

To keep the noise going