something fishy

I once saw a fish

washed upon the shore.

I stared down as it lay 

on its sandy grave

taking its last breath

then stepped away

as the seagulls came

tearing away at the carcass.

 

And I thought.

This is the best we can hope for – 

not to be remembered – 

but to provide for whatever comes after us. 

Knowing, like the fish,

when to live

and when to die.

 

The older I get

the less optimistic I feel.

Fantasy is for escape,

reality is for living;

however unpleasant it may be.

why i write poetry

I cannot say I’m a great poet.
I’m not even sure I can say
I’m a good poet.

But, I do like words
their power to
evoke and invoke
feelings and emotions
pictures and memories.

And so I struggle
ever so humbly to
express my self into being.

office balloon

A half-deflated balloon
decorated with

colorful stars and
“You’re So Special”

tethered to its cubicle

now
bobbing and weaving

now
drifting listlessly in

currents of stale
recirculated air

its metallic surface
reflecting the

bright
white light of
office fluorescents

the writing blahs

The hand lies
limply on the page

Pen flip-flopping flaccidly
insipid, impotent inspiration

Desire, a
vacuous turncoat
betrays me

What to write.
What to write?
What To Write!

nothing.