a poet that never penned a song...
almost
a love that might have been...
almost
a problem never solved...
eulerian
a road not taken?
just stop now
all the opportunities missed
shots not taken
investments not made
all the wouldas and shouldas
and missed kudos
water over the bridge
wind in the dust storm
almost... almost
writing a second poem today
whilst watching westerns, alliteratively,
bat tombstone wyatt palladin and
a maverick ranger but no zorro
no pecos anyone wild, bill, or other
nothing deep or existential
no awe, angst, or wonderment
no depth, no passion, no insights
no worries...
what is this poem doing here?
(well... it is lame)
deadrock reservation
june 2025
the lifelong longing
for some elusive else or more
is it a greener grass thing?
a spiritual emptimess?
plain old materialism?
a wee bit coveting?
or just too much tv?
i am not alone
we all are not alone
yet... too many of
the billions of us feel so...
in this teeming petri
too much time to what?
think? dream? ponder?
fighting to survive...
oh, that the fighting
was muscle and brawn
sweat and sinew
sword and shield
(the word drone perfectly misfits)
no that side of the fence
is hard scrabble where
too many die too young
this side is all steel, glass,
and concrete thoreauly
in self-help desperation
somewhere under the rainbow
june 2025
i sip your name
every sabah, dawning moment
i sip your name
etched in the rich woody
berry peaty bitter chocolatey
steaming swirls of brown and
beiged brewed complexities
i sip your name
jezvehed and poured into
maroon ornate demitassed cups
i sip your name, once more
it opens my soul
making me, oh, so happy
and oh so sad
i sip your name
yeah...
another attempt at
attempting and tempting
where tempering
rather than this moronic
play on words is the
only prescription
it was clear, quite clear
before the ellipses
this weren't to be
no how, no way
the illiadic start of
my very own oddyssey
the waterman flows
a sludgy river, oozing,
its way in slimy grace
pudding along to
some polluted sea
words splat on this page
a would be virtuoso expiring
on a shakespearean stage
some avante garde production
of a play no one likes
the sun... sets hopelessy
whilst dawning indifferntly
in someone else's tomorrow
where they will bake, globally warm,
this new existentialism
city of broad shoulders
ides of may
staring at a blank notebook page
this blank screen glowing back at me
processing it all with this fallow mind
this dormant marooned soul
waiting...
moist ideas evaporate in a mist
might have caught just a glimpse
might have jotted something down
that might have become a poem or three
maybe...
the world turned cold finally
the globally warm kind that won't last
while wars stay unfairly hot and afar
and social media plods confusingly along
this strange new normal...
nothing at all to preach or rant on
nothing - the difference it would make
nothing almost any of us could do
but for some fleeting reveries or dreams
nothing...
