With more than a nod to Emily Dickinson

  1. The path is uphill, that is truth,

And never can we rest.

And though we strive from day to day

We cannot reach a crest.

We’re not allowed to halt our trek,

To pause and hesitate.

The only way to end our climb

Is test eternal fate.

  1. To capture life in photographs

Is not an easy task,

Since all the world that we can see

Is little but a mask.

To capture essence with our eyes

Needs filters and some art.

The more we think we see the truth,

The less we see the heart.

  1. I cannot move, I cannot stop.

So I do both as one.

Fleeing quick from start to end

Until my life is done.

We set our goals, we set our pace,

Or does life choose for us?

Can it be true we have control,

Or just superfluous?

  1. Time speeds on while we stand still,

The curse of being born.

We fight to hold life in our hands,

All we can do is morn.

Is it too late or still too soon?

Life will not let us know.

We have to wager which is true,

And when our seeds to sew.

  1. I watch the people wander by

And wonder at their lives.

Their triumphs and their miseries,

The plot turns life contrives.

Each has a story all their own

That no one else can claim.

Yet though the details differ much,

All endings are the same.

  1. The more I age and face the grave

The less I have to do.

Responsibilities are less,

Requirements are few.

But life in irony abounds

To let us not forget,

The less there is to do the more

Time it takes to do it.

  1. I loathe to mock a life of love

For fearing love will hear.

It eavesdrops on our every word,

Then smiles from ear to ear.

Love lays in wait with baited breath

Our words of utter scorn

So it can make us fall once more

And rue the day we’re born.

  1. The clouds that float, they must be bored,

They simply won’t stay still.

They fly along on diverse paths

And transformate at will.

A fortress, mountain, lion next

And then they break apart.

Reforming into stunning shapes

To fabricate their art.

  1. A picture’s worth a thousand words,

Or so the gurus state.

And image is the word of God,

Not Jesus incarnate.

But why do I suspect a scam

When all these speaker’s speak.

They lie to cover up the fact

Their writing skills are bleak.

  1. How difficult to find the word

That other words embrace.

Fulfilling all the rules I’ve set

And cannot be replaced.

Revising is not simply done.

Verse fights to have its way.

It screams and scraps with claws that scratch,

But think it’s merely play.

  1. The world will end in entropy

And then begin again.

A yo-yo tossing little boy

With mean and evil grin.

He throws it out, then reels it in,

Then flings it out once more,

Indifferent to the damaged caused

And spiteful to his core.

  1. My life unfolds in novel form

With passages not done.

And random pages lost or gone,

The same as everyone.

All lives read like a bad first draft

That no one will rewrite,

By authors are bored to death

Or laughing at our plight.

  1. Is finishing a work of art

Deceptive at its core?

The time it takes to pen “the end”,

A never ending chore?

Or like a new born building lot

A sprawling, stalling site,

Though first no progress can be told,

It’s finished overnight.

  1. True artists find themselves impaled

By commerce and it’s hell.

For many have the skill to write,

But few the skill to sell.

Supporters who support the bold

Seem rarely to appear.

And so an artist’s sincere soul

Becomes a privateer.

  1. There are many ways to write a poem,

A film, a play, a book.

The variations never stop,

With each their separate hook.

But life, the acts are all the same,

And everyone gets three.

We’re born, we live, we die, and then,

There’s nothing left to see.

  1. Though diamonds seem a simple jewel

When cut and then refined,

Their lives began as carbon base,

In time before mankind.

All great ideas are simple, too,

And just as simply gained.

With years and years to flush the pipes

Until the shit has drained.

  1. I write a line and then one more,

Pure artifice I know.

But if I labor long enough,

It gains a natural flow.

I try the same to lead my life

And give it shapes and forms.

But unlike art, the more I toil,

The more that nature storms.

  1. All writers are bulimious,

They vomit their first draft.

Is this the nature of the beast,

The way to learn one’s craft?

Digesting words, then throwing up,

Ingesting them again.

A psychologic malady

That’s only known to man.

  1. I board a bus, but where I’m bound

I rarely find I care.

I do it more to fill my time,

And cheap I find the fare.

But this is how I spend my days,

In truth and metaphor,

Waiting for the day I dread,

When I come home no more.

  1. The larks in exaltation soar.

Bold butterflies take flight.

Apes are shrewd and jellyfish brood,

While bats decamp at night.

But what then is poor humankind?

What collective can they claim?

Perhaps a lack is there because

Crows current bear our name.

  1. A cautionary tale some say

Appears mere mockery.

It does no good when it is told,

But in post summary.

Yet still, perhaps, a fate far worse

Is suffering for your choice,

And someone says, I told you so,

In blissful, mirthful voice.

  1. His fashion is not fashionable,

In taste he’s quite antique.

As are his friends who wait with him,

An ever narrow clique.

The younger ones who notice him

Just jeer and make their art.

They think that they’ll escape the curse.

But time, it has no heart.

  1. My pen is very petulant,

It does despair of ink.

It stops, it starts, it spurts, it halts,

All with a smirking wink.

Yet what I cannot comprehend

Is how it always knows

To die, not when my mind’s quite blank,

But when an idea flows.

  1. The world is warring with itself.

So man has writ act three,

An apoplectic apocalypse

Our tour de force to see.

The universe indifferent waits

Our curtain to ring down.

For when the stage is seen again,

There’s no one left to bow.

  1. Theories are theoretical

Until they become facts.

None thought that Newton’s apple fell

Because a force attracts.

But gravity cannot be seen,

And save the truly dense,

What once was deemed fantastical

Is now plain common sense.

  1. The bad sleep well, or so we’re told.

But that’s bad news for me.

For through the night I never stir,

And dream unceasingly.

And there are those who live like saints

Who cannot close an eye.

Perhaps the truth’s irrelevant

Since all that’s born must die.

  1. Love is a thing that makes no sound.

It can’t be heard or seen.

It leaves no odor in its wake,

In taste it is quite mean.

It can be felt, but not by hand.

It’s quite nonsensical.

For still it shines against man’s will

A brightly, sparkling jewel.

  1. A seed, a root, a tree, a fruit

And then begin again.

The logic’s indisputable,

But ‘tis the same for men?

We’re born, we are, we die, and yet,

No matter when we leave,

We know we are not seed or tree,

And for all that we grieve.

  1. In dictionaries we find “life”

And meanings that are clear.

But textbooks cannot rob us of

The subtext that is fear.

We make up meaning as we go.

But improv can’t improve

An essence that’s quite meaningless

And God who will not move.

  1. A simple song is quite complex.

New artists mighn’t agree.

It’s ornaments that are their goal,

As on a Christmas tree.

Professionals who tread this path

Create a different way.

They clear the clutter and the trash

‘Til essence leads the way.

  1. I long to travel far from home,

But life does not allow.

My fortunes are not fortunate,

And none will tell me how.

I only have a few years ‘til

Behind my back I know,

My friends will say, “He’s all dressed up,

And no place left to go.”

  1. Birds sweetly sing, but do they know

The lyrics that they share?

They warble to find love and mate,

But are they self aware?

The universe is beauty, too.

And some there are who claim,

This beauty is a song as well,

Though no one knows its name.

  1. My walk grows worn with every morn,

New cracks and weeds appear.

And though they promise to repair,

Their voices suggest fear.

Roads, too, grow shorter with each sun.

Yet none can tell me why

It takes twice long to tread them now.

They only pray and sigh.

  1. My house decays, it will not last.

Roofs leak and lead the way.

The bricks break easy to the touch

As walls and beams give way.

I soon shall have a stouter home,

Perhaps of solid oak,

Where I will sleep ‘til all time ends,

And none shall be awoke.

  1. I search for signs from set to dawn

And search again at day.

I find all that I wish to see,

But none have aught to say.

Do signs exist in present time,

Or only in past tense?

Are they created for our worth?

Or pure coincidence?

  1. There’s little left that I can do,

And less time left to do it.

Late years speed faster every day

And time is no match to it.

The race is done, it can’t be won.

And such is fact for all.

We lost the bout by being born,

Then learning how to crawl.

  1. The life I’ve led, I did not lead.

No power could I see,

Except of that I thought I had

Which did no good for me.

Illusion’s all we have of choice,

Or’s that delusion, too?

If I could choose to say farewell,

Is not death long o’erdue?

  1. The tales I tell are nowhere true,

Yet indisputably real.

Since facts say little about life

And serve but to conceal.

Truth’s but an invisible fact

That few can see or feel.

And t’would not matter if they could

If rung with an angel’s peal.

  1. The sun and moon divide the sky

As though in partnership.

But one speaks not the other one

And continue on their trip.

If they could talk, what would they say?

I will hypothesy.

I’m bored, I’m tired, I hate my work,

Switch places or I’ll die.

So tell me what you think.

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