Why Poetry Sucks


Is poetry a craft or is it art,
aligning words in meter and/or rhyme?
A vehicle with meaning to impart,
Or just another way to waste some time?

Like anything, it’s all in point of view.
Some think that Quaker pronouns are required;.
A “thee” or “thou” instead of simply “you.”
But often what they write is uninspired.

Some feel that only rhythm is endorsed,
Or that it must have rhyme to be complete.
And oftentimes their work appears quite forced
Although they think themselves to be elite.

Still others try their hand at counted forms
Believing that the number makes it so.
And disregard the other sets of norms
That give this type of work its subtle flow.

Now, lest you think I hold myself aloof
From other poets whose works go awry.
Please notice that this piece is ample proof
That no one is more fallible than I.

Let There Be Words


words create worlds
some say this world
is the word of god

god became man
as men became gods
crafting new worlds

each in his own image
words made real
alternate truths

I Chose to Write


Since words elude my tongue, I chose to write
my declaration of intent to woo
upon this page so innocent and white.

Far more than mere affection, I invite
the words and acts that some say are taboo–
since words elude my tongue, I chose to write.

I wish my pen would set your eyes alight,
as all my hopes are placed within your view
upon this page so innocent and white.

Though you may see this note as impolite,
It nonetheless says only what is true.
Since words elude my tongue, I chose to write.

I strive to get each line exactly right
and pray that my sincerity comes through
upon this page so innocent and white.

All afternoon and on into the night
I pondered how to share these thoughts with you.
Since words elude my tongue, I chose to write
upon this page so innocent and white.

The Second Witch


You wonder at the pricking of my thumbs?
Exsanguination took my shriveled womb.
I now must pay the price when bleeding comes;
to conjure truth and warn men of their doom.

We counseled not, that he should slay the king.
But only that Macbeth was born to reign;
his wicked bride said murder was the thing
to elevate Macbeth to rightful Thane.

This was the second time he’d sought our scry–
afraid that Banquo’s heirs would seize his throne.
Again we three began to prophesy
though his interpretations were his own.

We told him of Macduff and Birnam Wood–
that he need fear no man of woman born.
But from our words he took only the good,
not seeing our intention to forewarn.

Because the bloodshed started in my hand,
his lady could not extirpate her stain.
Like, calling unto like–at my command–
Macbeth continued on his mad campaign.

“Lay on, Macduff,” he shouted, unafraid,
not knowing how Macduff had come to be.
Cut from his mother’s womb with sharpened blade–
We’d tried to warn him in our prophecy.

I smile to think how fate could be so cruel.
As now Macbeth lay still among the dead.
For Duncan’s son would have his chance to rule,
the crown now being placed on Malcolm’s head.

Poetic Seasons


ink-blotched ideas
blossom on the empty page
outlast their authors

words drawn in sand dunes
whisper to the reader’s heart
beyond the wind’s reach

colored leaves falling
as old poets’ tears of ink
baring ancient hearts

secretive snow
reveals as much as it hides
writings of masters

The Last Believer


The last believer lay awake in bed
with heartbeat echoed by a sleek machine.
He tried to hold Her image in his head,
but medicated fog crept up between.

He knew his time approached on slippered feet;
his DNR all carefully in place.
No rebirth here; this death would be complete
without his Goddess there to lend her grace.

Awake he’d try to call his Lady’s name;
for maybe someone knew the Lady’s ways.
But to his knowledge, no one ever came.
As slowly passing hours turned to days.

A tech with Wikipedia knows Who;
instead of one believer, there are two.