On Writing


Simple love and life and words
are far more lasting 
than all the flowery verse 
ever penned 
by all the greats 
that ever wrote
in prose or rhyme 


Once poems 

Lived for God

And then for romance.


But in this world

Of atheistic realism

Do poems even have a chance?



Sometimes writing can be absurd.

Like when you spend an hour

wrestling with a word.


And honestly punctation breaks my heart,

forever keeping thoughts and sense apart.






               The cursor on my screen 

                     counts the moments


Leaving behind only a field of blinding white 

unsullied by the black of type



I sent you some poems

to amuse you during lunch


or to give you indigestion

as they are so bad.



you had to vomit them back up.




I remember the fierce staccato 


the tapclack







The bright chime at the end of a line

and the swift zing 

that brought you back


Ah, how the typewriter did sing

its own great symphony 


While on the page

great loves were waged

and battles fought 


And lives and dreams and hope 

were lost

and found


Amidst the cacophony of sound.  






Last lines should always leave you

Like a lover when the morning comes 

Sated, and yet longing for the next kiss to come.


Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: