1973 - when I started asking questions, like, "Why are we all dressed so funny?"

Sunday, April 17, 2011

Bad Poetry

Bad poetry has a cathartic affect in the writing.
Like a bad wrapper, words spill out like lightning.
There is not much of substance to be found,
But an interesting stream of consciousness doth abound.
I never studied seriously those who went before.
A simple layman and a bore.

In College

In college an English teacher said I had some skill
With words and such but I didn't believe her much.
Then a historian said, "Great historical sense!,"
To which I replied, hoarsely, "But I never get off the fence."

Lastly a philosopher said, "You're among the best,"
But I was shy and too self-aware;
I was fearful of the implications and
tossed it away as a jest.

To Thomas

Eliot wrote poems
That I'll never beat;
He saw more deeply,
Looked more lovingly,
Cared more intelligently,
Listened with an attentiveness
Not found today on our lonely streets.

Still, I'd like to find a way to somehow compete.
Perhaps invent a genre at which all will gasp.
Or show talent that is above reproach.
Nevertheless, imitation ain't so bad.
In that sun-drenched heaven,
I hope this faint effort
makes him glad.


To be useless

In the tupperware state.

Nothing to be done

Save refrigerate.

Blood boiling,

Stomach churning,

Ever-willing to


The soft contours

Of life

Can lead one

To believe

That nothing

Is at stake;

That the noblest

Emotion is hate.

Step back from the abyss

Which yawns so great;

Step into a void

That nullifies Fate.