a poem

I made you something.
It’s a poem
To hang on your fridge
To remind you we’re friends.

I thought I was writing to hide my pain
Making fun of scrapes on scraps of paper,
A black ink ruse to salve my battered blue bruise,
Hoping no one would see the sad.

But then I noticed you were sad, too
(Smiles don’t hide pain from one who is looking for it)
And I put away my selfish
When I realized it was really for you.

Would you like to play on my playground of words?
Come ride a twisty slide of nounish nonsense
Spin merry on my rhyme-go-round
Swing on a string of silly sentences. Can I give you a push?

Squeeze your knees round my monkey bar trapeze
Laugh a little at alliterated adverbs
Totter on a teetering tale of onomatopoeic wit– or nitwit.
Run with a pun and for once we’ll have fun.

Collapse on grass in fits of laugh
And when laughter subsides, with tears in our eyes
I will catch you being you and
You will snatch a glimpse of true me.

Maybe you’ll flash a ray of sun smile.
Not the fakery traded in fine Sunday shinery
But the pearl in the oyster one–
The true smile of secret shared friendly.

You don’t have to know my hurts
And I don’t have to know yours;
We’ll face each other’s comfort next time
If pain remains unspoken.

The eye corners of my heart crinkle with wincing tiniest joy–
I confess my gift is for us both–
For writing this little escape from your mundane
Is the closest happy I may ever know.

I write poems, too!

Mark Borg photo of coffeeHe turns the napkin over as she refills his coffee
Whatcha writing?
A poem.
I write poems, too!
Who doesn’t?
She wants to be a poet
A know it all
Show it all

She turns to the back of her little black book
Maybe you’d like to hear a few lines?
Of course he does not
Who would? Her mother, maybe
She begins to read
And /he smiles not pleasantly/
Thinking of her poor mother, maybe not

Her pathetic plea
For poetic empathy
Please notice me—
Falls on peripatetic ears
Listening past her drone
for the going going gone
sound of an idea
gone walkabout
He wants to shout
You moron
Blow your horn elsewhere
Rhyme your you with true
Suss out your strung out syllables
Dirigibles tossed here and there
Require more than hot air
To fly

Why are you not embarrassed by this rubbish
This nonsense
This gibberish?

And who is the greater fool
You who blows smoke up your own ass in order to bring forth these charred rectal probings you call poems
Or I who smile that pained smile as I watch my own idea fly
Oh why did I not flee alongside that transient thought of mine? Eternally gone; a butterfly does not return to its chrysalis.

Listening politely
to her chattering blithely
Writhing inside
with the cringing crashing tide
of her self congratulatory
Auditory awfulness
The back of the napkin remains regrettably blank
And she has no idea because
No one ever cleared her mind
Or set the table claiming to be a closet waitress.

Opportunity lost… or found?

The idea came to her at dinner.
She felt reticent to excuse herself.
“I’ll remember,” she told herself
But of course she did not.
Plagued through dessert
Through drinks
Through after dinner games.
What was it?
Finally the guests dispersed
And she had opportunity
To revisit the table.
She sat in the same seat
Imagined her table mates—
Arrestingly handsome there
Wittily remarkable there—
Banged her bruised forehead into polished walnut
Mourning the lost thought
Until arrestingly handsome touched her shoulder lightly
And with “Such a lovely dinner”
Lured her away from the sad reverie
To an even better idea
She had also missed.

For Punk: on the verge of 40

Start something, stop something
Do it or don’t
Make it, break it, shake things up
Wake up to what you almost lost
Make up the difference
the time
your mind
Who will you be?
Who will you love?
What will you live for
die for
strive for
What do you yearn for?
What will you learn?
You’ve earned the time to think it through
Life is short
Blink and it’s gone
So long
So much time through the sieve
It’s time to live
Make every grain count
Pounce on each chance
to go
to thrive
to do
to give to the world
The shaken

from zero to author in 40 years flat


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