We reproduce the world, and see
What isn’t oughta shouldn’t be –
Then reproduce, on screen and page
A type of social macrophage
To crush the infamy, and try
For greener grass and bluer sky:
Artistic license, at it’s core —
Though we be small, we hope
For more
I try to post a round four dozen poems
Each weekend; some are old, and some are new —
But right now, I am feeling kind of puny –
I’m just not really sure how much I’ll do
I feel like such a failure giving up now,
My vaunted weekend writing spree a flop —
But coughing is a pastime most engrossing;
I start, and then it’s kind of hard
To stop
I listened for an hour there in awe
At what she planned to write, and had no doubt
That she’d be famous one day; with that wit
And grasp of complex plots, so well thought out
And wondered why it is a few that age
Hit their adulthood knowing who they are:
While others flounder, pointlessly, for years
Between the stage, the classroom or the bar —
But there she was, so brilliant and so sharp
A surgeon with her words and her ideas:
A young woman of passion and of fire
Who saw the thing she wanted, and would seize
Her moment when it came. And so she has:
Her talent recognized right off the mark,
She’s worked hard at her craft, and earned her way
With haunting stories, beautiful, but dark
Her life has had its problems, that I know.
Some people do not read her with delight.
But she knows what she truly loves to do:
What she was born to do, and that’s to write
My family doesn’t read this blog
Nor do my oldest friends
On pseudo-anonymity
This blog’s main use depends
I want to write on everything
But not hurt anyone
Since no one I know reads my stuff
The thing seems easily done
But secrets, I’m afraid are never
Kept long in the end
And one day, those I hold most dear
Will read these words I’ve penned
Forgive me, then, if anything
I may have said brings pain;
But I needed to say these things
To find myself again
For now, I’ll pause and think a bit
To find a word that seems to fit
And although it will take some time
I guess I ought to make it rhyme
For sometimes, rhyme’s the harmony
That locks in musicality
In rhythmic tones of spoken verse
Be they expansive, or be terse:
Be they profound, or be absurd —
What’s needed is a rhyming word
Here is Saturday morning
It’s my day for rest and fun
And sometime around 8:00
It’s 21 ’til done
That is my writing schedule
As my work and home life’s such
That Sunday on through Friday
I cannot write very much
So here I go again, my friends
With thoughts of joy and plight
That I’ve been saving up for when
I could sit down and write
I’ve no talent for certainty
My work has just begun;
I hope in a few hours
I’ll have 21 and done
