Hypocrite

Twenty and two years, it was staring me right in the face,

the 80s paneling on the walls of the apartment octo-plex

where my friend lived believing conspiracy theories

and not thinking of how her kitchen smelled

of overnight pasta and bad pipes.

 

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Dallying at the Coal Hill

When I’m not sure what to write, I like to give kudos to other writers who I’ve come across on the Internet during my research. The most recent of these was Gerry LaFemina of Coal Hill Review about poetry and pacing. Continue reading

Young Old One

You will hit 30 one day.  

Your mortality will close around you like a drying cocoon. 

The hopes you planted in your youth will decide if you’ll wake a butterfly.

You will hit 40 one day.

Time will loom slanted and dark like the inside of a coffin.  

The action you took in your youth, and in every minute after, will decide your epithet.

You will hit 50 one day.

At least I hope you do.  And 60.  And 70.  And all the years in between and some after, all like the hammers on a bell of someone ringing out a life with celebration, not regret.

Confessions of a Bad Writer

 

I want to make this very clear,

what you should know of me,

I am not the great, good things I write—

I am poor and hopeless me:

I am angry, bitter, shallow, dense,

incompetent, and blind.

These heroes are my wishes and my teachers, not my kind.

 

I’m grouchy, temperamental, rude,

my platitudes a scheme.

I did not live these hero tales—

I sat and wished and dreamed.

I waited, watched, and wondered,

feet shuffling, words mute.

These heroes are regrets in hopes the world won’t follow suit.

 

I’m bitter, uncommitted, vain,

self-righteous, selfish, trite.

I stay up late ’til dreams appear

to tell me what to write.

Whatever greater way to live,

You think you learn from me,

These heroes are the memories I never dared to be.