what sounds good
is that we all write for ourselves
that we write because of passion
we have to
we can’t not write

such drivel
this is a public site
if you post your work here
it is not

just for you /

sure, you like to pretend
it’s all about craft
honing skill
trying to be better

this is a public site

expect feedback ~

lies are acceptable
we are writers after all
poets, really
but you shy away
like that word
hurts you
like embracing your gift
makes you an egomaniac
instead of driven
makes you pretentious
as opposed to free /


each time you type your life
then submit it to this site
you are no longer writing solely for yourself

sorry

that bubble needs burst

you are writing for acceptance
for love
for community


or

you would simply file each writing
into your desk
never to be seen again /

It’s such a strange phenomenon
people writing poetry
desperately seeking not to be called a poet
like they are afraid of that label
like if they call themselves a poet
instantly you are held to a special standard
you are forced to be brilliant and insightful
each breath inhaling beauty
and exhaling wisdom and exuberance
or
maybe you think you have to sell all your clothes
wear only black and brood
contemplate death endlessly
while recognizing nothing as worthy
or interesting
only pain is real
if you say you are a poet…..

I am a poet.
I write poetry near daily.
I think about the way in which the leaves twirl
as they fall to the ground
consider children running through hoses
in the summer ~

I am a poet because there is no other name for me /

watery eyes blur after a yawn
unwelcome images play in the saline
chawed hands elongate
feeling tugged as the shadow calls
thoughts trail into thin tendrils
smoky whips of nonsensical incoherence
unfinished ideas void of flesh
waltz merrily with lost lovers
and screaming banshees
stretching and shaking cobwebs loose
only the hum of discontent lasts
alone with complacency
intellectualism flees
bad ideas pepper
only a single option remains
time to get the **** outta here /

don’t bother
hitting the heart
sharing, liking, paying, promoting
save your energy
money
and time ~
we are not friends
associates
brothers and sisters in poetry
I am a rude 40 year old white guy
who writes as release
writes to be the best I can be
writes with an eye to hard print publication
I write for me
this is just somewhere to put it… ~
I barely ready anything here
your feelings, musings, thoughts
useless fodder cluttering my home page
worthless nonsense *******
barley coherent in its triviality ~
remove yourself from me
for a new version is about to break free
the hostility I exude on facebook and twitter
is finding a new home
here ~

rushing mountain stream
grey stones protrude
blackberries hang just above
little splashes cause sparkles
sunshine filters through branches
light dances on the moving promenade
a lonely leaf passes by without fanfare ~
we sit watching
discussing home ownership steps
dropping names of realtors
considering taking the plunge
just over 1050 square feet
spring fed wood and oil heat
tiny cabin off Tree Farm road
future property of Mr. and Mrs.
Samuel Lyman Temple ~
bright blue Steller’s Jay
squawks his arrival
***** a mow-hawked head
and considers us for a moment
three quicks hops and one more call
before he flies off into the foothills
nature gifting us a nod of approval /

When darkly falls the languid night
and tails all are tucked
frightened faces peer out from sheets
pulled round their head so tight

the moon shown full upon the wall
casting shadow through the tree
gnarled fingers scratch the glass
an owl sounds its call

windswept clouds shift the mood
new pictures form and melt
distorted ghosts play in the din
postures angry and lewd

youthful eyes dart left then right
terror fills a quick beating heart
sweat droplet slips into the quilt
strange noises enhance the fright

creaking boards and a squeaky door
send thoughts of an intruder
robbers, aliens, psychopathic killers
come to settle an unknown score

minutes pass and hours slip quickly by
heavy lids give way to sleep
dreams of restful nights of peace
and images of a blue clear sky

every day the same story is told
fearfully trembling until rhythmically snoring
the plot seems worn and ragged
and this life is getting old

before the sun set and darkness settled in
he cradled a chrome 45
thought of a lifetime living in fear
and how it would never bother him again /

2 inch tree tops dot the skyline
red brick beneath housing the insane
education office desk
overlooking bars, concertina, and walls
promoting freedom of mind
in a maximum security facility /


he pops his head in asking if he is in trouble
pleading a case before there is a crime
smiling and offering smooth reassurance.
both of us hope I am not speaking out of turn…..


                         there is always a chance I am full of ****

we part ways as he heads to chow
I click clack the keyboard in time
chapel choir muffled bellowing
behind them, radio’s crackle with line movement /