Instead of sitting staring at the screen,
I should take pen in hand and ink a page
Or more than one. If I do truly mean
To make myself a writer and assuage
The guilt I feel, give voice to the rage
That swells between my arms–too thin and weak
To do much to avail against a cage–
Then I cannot let myself be so meek
As to withhold my voice. Of fear I reek,
I know; I smell myself. Yet I am keen
To make of myself more, and I will seek
Some way in which my value can be seen.
But I cannot command that others look
At what I scribe on screen or in a book.

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When they are gone who should be here,
I keep the porchlight burning clear
So they can always find a way
Back to our home, by night or day.

When I accept that they have left,
And home of them has been bereft,
I then will let the light go out–
But only when I have no doubt.

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The stacks of books and magazines rise high,
Each thing that’s piled upon them seeks my eye,
And I lament that I must oft pass by
Some well-worn volumes. Long they’ve graced my shelves
And gathered hand-oils and dust to themselves,
Those mines in which a glad mind often delves,
Those comforts, blankets shutting out the cold
Of which the world has plenty. I had sold
Myself to their devotion young; now old,
I scarce sustain that practice I enjoyed,
The ritual rereadings that upbuoyed
My soul–but I am not by this annoyed,
For though I seldom visit anymore,
I know with them I’ll never find closed doors.

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Even in showing utopian futures–
For example
Those shining Starfleet days to come
With concertos played and plays performed
A shining-headed captain tooting his flute–
It is only the older arts that are seen
Unless there is some pop-point to be made
About kids these days and their newfangled ways

It must be remembered
“U” comes long after “dys,”
Something familiar from dictionaries and thesauri
No few writers have all too clearly used,
And it’s not likely the lawyers were lonely
Being sent away

Even,
As rarely,
When new arts are made
To feature in those hopeful futures,
Think of where the poets appear
And consider if it is not the case that
Another Chixulub is ready to form

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I see you
Sitting at the table across the patio
Air fresh with petrichor
And the curve of your thigh where
The cut of your running shorts creeps up
The thought of my hand on the bristle of your undercut
Your bassoonist’s chin

Ah!
All I can do is
Lift the amber ale to my hairy lips
Wipe the foam away
Wondering what might have been
We’re I other than I am
And you perhaps than you–
But I will never know so much
And I don’t know if I regret it

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The old wounds scrape open often enough with
My stumbling into walls and doorframes or
Brushing up against the thorns hiding under more flowers than you’d think
Ripping open again to bleed and stain my shirts and pants
That I then have to throw away because
I cannot show myself as I must appear
If such stains linger where they can be seen
So I do not need to pick at them to keep them open
Although my bitten fingernails are drying red beneath
And I certainly do not need
Other hands tearing at my still raw skin
Flaying me a little bit at a time

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As out into the world this verse does come,
I go, as I too rarely do, for some
Conversing lunch. I seldom brave the scrum
That comes with ev’ry workday’s afternoon,
And seldom spend the cash to fill a spoon
With soup or fork with meat from cattle hewn,
More often eating at my desk from home
Than daring from my office out to roam.
As staid and stolid, I am rightly known,
Both plain and proper such as well enough
Will serve those I am often near. Such stuff
As tales are made of, I from me rebuff,
For I know I am not of such a kind
As greater stories keep in their designs.

I do not do great deeds, but I write well about them. Try me out!

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