Very brutal by nature my mind can confirm,
Poetry marathoners need a cap laced with wisdom,
To grace the desired seats of battlescarred warriors,
The skillet must still burn hotter than Hades.
Surely Marathons are run with endurance and persistence,
So is this one, for my goals are lofty.
Though I lack great speed, power, and technique,
My oak must stand deep-rooted through the storms.
My drafts litter bins as torn scraps of junk,
Haters blot the ink of my masterpiece.
Negativity weighs on my frail shoulder,
Yet my resolve stands steadfast on aching feet.
But no one can deny good poems their glory.
Like smoke they escape all traps and dissipate,
Clutching throats to make their presence felt.
All I need do is write—and hope.
The songs that masterpieces sing
Are heard by the deaf and sung by the dumb.
Their rhythm washes away the dust of imperfection;
They heal the soul and soothe the mind of sorrow.
So, my pen, fill yourself with ink of perfection.
Write on this paper I lay before you—
Another poem no sponsor can deny the top prize.
Write before the last drop runs dry.
Bleeding feet beneath the graceful dance.
Years of practice.
Knife blade through onion skin by Chef,
scarred knuckles for twenty years.
Swan's neck curves like a question.
Beneath churning continuously under water.
Brush moves across white paper in creating a marvel painting.
Decades in each stroke.
Earth spins 927,000 miles daily in creating golden light.
No applause.
Crumpled drafts seventeen times by writer.
The final line breathes.
When it came to iambic pentameter
Alexander Pope was no dumb amateur.
In his strict use of it he achieved a skill
often with a monotonous overkill –
a danger every poet should not commit
unless he likes his thoughts in a straitjacket,
and the flow so turgid and mechanical
the line will cease to sound natural –
more strident, unmellifluous and harsh
like a stomping, goose-stepping march.
Now here’s a fast and easy suggestion
to unclog a line’s bumpy congestion
which Pope and other poets used to great
effect when they deemed it appropriate :
they added an extra syllable or stress
which opened it and gave it smoothness.
These little extras acted like a breach
and made the line read like spoken speech.
It may not work even with a first try
and take it from me, it’s not a lie.
In fact, you may require a new line or couplet
to be rewritten with a little extra sweat.
But, hey, think back to when you started writing
how many drafts required no editing?
The door swells in its frame each winter,
paint curling like old tongues —
still you press it open with a finger,
leaving soft dents in the wood.
Inside, the walls hum from hidden wires;
plaster sighs under your barefoot weight.
Every step — a loosened nail,
a whisper of dust sliding down beams.
The windows breathe in drafts,
their single panes shivering;
no storm need rage —
your shadow is enough to rattle them.
In the hallway, wallpaper blisters;
your sleeve grazes it,
and flakes of me snow to the floor.
The ceiling, swollen with damp,
droops lower each night you sleep here —
timbers ache above your breathing.
Downstairs, the kitchen faucet drips
like a clock without courage;
your laugh sends the pipes ringing,
and the cupboards cough up ghosts.
Upstairs, in the attic, silence nests —
you climb no ladder,
yet I feel your warmth seep into rafters
where rot waits, patient.
When you close the door behind you,
its frame leans inward, yearning.
The house is always colder after.
Watching the empty streets
As a heavy rain wash the dirty town.
Deep darkness drape the drives
That lead to dead ends.
Drafts of wind dash hanging pots,
Ruin is the reign of the time.
She barely breathed a farewell.
No whisper weaving a soft adieu
Not even a hug or a parting kiss.
My heart echoes a hollow hum.
It beats like the harsh wind outside.
Life is so hollow, so non-descript.
And sleep has fled. I’ll find no rest.
Sorrow does not sleep. Shadows fill my room.
No moonlight penetrates the heavy drizzling clouds.
Suddenly I leave my forlorn house
And wander right into the rain. Wet and cold,
I feel cleansed and I return, the past washed away.
That night I slept deeply.
i can write it all down.
every syllable, i never got to say.
on paper, i’m fluent,
maybe even eloquent.
but in the room,
my tongue turns against me.
my throat locks like a vault.
i’ve rehearsed it all before.
in margins,
in drafts,
in dead message boxes
i watch my voice
rot behind my teeth,
while everyone else
converses.
what good is articulation
if it only echoes
inside my own skull?
what good is writing
if no one reads it?
they say speak your mind,
but never hand me the microphone.
so i pass poems
like folded notes,
hoping maybe
just once
someone will open one.
You’ve gone, and that’s the truth
The picture of disaster
And like a spider on the loose
Who’s no more a web master
I flounder in the drafts of past
Attempting to get out
There’s no well-trodden path
It’s like the every round
I do seems new to me
But as the days go by
There’s nothing new I see
You’ve gone without goodbye
Into the vale of grey
Into the land of sorrow
Time stopped one sunny day
It didn’t meet tomorrow.
It all started with a project,
Though it wasn’t really mine to begin.
I thought I’d play a minor part,
Yet there I was, roped in—entangled within.
One task led to a series,
Replaceable once, but now I belonged.
Amidst PDFs and endless links,
Glances exchanged, where silence thronged.
A minor edit became an excuse for a brief call,
The urge to connect sparked those random reach-outs after all.
Pixel by pixel and frame by frame, the project neared its close,
Yet beyond the drafts, nothing deeper arose.
I didn’t expect an answer, but perhaps I sought to know—
Working together made me wonder if something more could grow.
After 96 pages, we lingered, waiting for something to unfold.
It’s probably nothing—just familiarity, this to myself I told.
After all, it’s easy to confuse closeness with something profound,
or perhaps it’s just me, seeking meaning where risks abound.
Yet the eyes whispered a different tale, hinting at a
devilish affair,
Meeting in secrecy, amidst a crowded room, unaware.
With my thinking cap on
sometimes too tight
restricting thoughts
or words to write.
Inside my head
a jumbled mess
frustration reins
I must confess.
The words must rhyme
or maybe not
a stitch in time
solutions sought.
Paper drafts
lay everywhere
of idea's cast off
for which I did not care.
Much time is given
for words just right
a poem well written
is now in sight.
The stage is set
time to prepare
with words arranged
I now can share.
Shall I be the bearer of forgiveness
When inertia steals precious moments?
Pen and patience bleed dry on ink
As your absence deprives me
From feeding a muse' s hunger.
Verses silenced like frozen leaves
Till drafts now guide me
past excruciating hours;
Calming my doubts as I reflect
How abandoned your soul cries
For deep catharsis.
And so I listened, listened
To psalms of your discontent
Those late answers leaving me vacant--
Yet , into mirrors of twilight
I slowly begin to understand
The worth and weight
of all your own torment.
I’ve lost my heart among the woods,
Where now it flutters in the drafts
And moves about close secrets kept
Within the floras’ whispered breath.
I know because there glimpses break
Between the bark-skinned living things,
Where there it flows from one to next
In jubilant discovery.
I feel it yet, though standing yon,
Of how the boughs absorb the sun
Among the shafted beams of light
That pierce the hazy, busy air.
Despite observing, yet I sense
The stirring of euphoria
That rises from the forest floor
To giant heights within my heart.
I think that I should join with it
If I can catch it in a pause,
For time can pass so ever slow
And ever speed to its demise.
In lacquered boxes, six feet down,
Rest whispers of the unbought crown -
The paintings left in mental drafts,
The kindness stored away in crafts.
Between the satin folds they place
The morning walks at slower pace,
The letters crumpled, never sent,
The wild dreams left unbent.
A coffee-stained rejection slip,
The novel's pages, torn and ripped,
Three cigarettes crushed in despair
When winter stripped our cupboards bare.
The day we sold mom's silver spoons,
To pay for pills that came too soon,
While mice made nests of unpaid bills
Behind the walls of windowsills.
These fragments sealed in knotted pine:
Dead houseplants, dried in '99,
A pawnshop ticket, never claimed -
Now feed the earth we never tamed.
-
The door doesn't shut
The windows don't open,
But, give it some time
Some wishin' and hopin'
Creaking floorboards
And the coldest drafts,
Occupy these rooms
With echoes of laughs
Only a house rundown
Is what the eye sees,
Yet, the deadest place
Is alive with memories
The lady in the cellar
The man in the attic,
Shrieking and calling
And stomping erratic
Below a leaky roof
My feet still roam,
No, it ain't much ...
But, still it's home.
An artist of many crafts
Yet, a master of none
Projects stay as drafts
Left to wither undone
Oh but can she decide
Which shall be
The one she takes pride
But how can she
When all seems so abundant
Choosing one means wasting others
It may become redundant
Then all loses it’s colors
She might never establish a winner
Alas she will remain a beginner
The unseen maestro, the wily whistling whisperer,
Cunningly twirls a sway in the bending trees,
Dabs, daubs and draws impasto clouds in the sky,
Lilts, entices, leaves to dance in tune, as it whistles on by.
The field of grass compliant, bends to lithe gusts sly.
Laughing to tickling tongue secrets, beholden in every sigh.
The wind teases waves, torments lakes to ripples.
Their surfaces combed and drawn to rugged stipples.
The wily whisperer winds its way into cracks and holes.
Creating drafts that shake the drapes like ghostly souls.
Defying all attempts to block their breathy intrusion.
You can feel it breathing in and out, expiring confusion.
Oh wily wind, your whispers collude and unwind,
The peaceful slumber of earth and heart entwined.
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