This poem was meant to be a glorious thing, To really take off, even sprout wings But somewhere, somehow it took a wrong turn, The vision got lost, the fuel failed to burn So I switched phrases furiously, here and there Sentences too, to give it more zest, flair But I saw it wasn’t working, I began to panic, It was like rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic.
–––––––– “The greatest peacetime maritime disaster is the perfect metaphor for the poem that no matter what couldn’t save itself.” – the writer
Dusk on an autumn afternoon Leaves tumble from frail limbs Winter forms in a crimson womb
September ebbs and flows but winter ‘s hand cuts the day much too soon
As morning comes with jagged teeth Sucking from the sullen boughs
––––––––––––– “I write because of what I feel when I read another moving piece of work. I would love to have this impact on someone else. I feel there needs to be more profound moments through poetry.” – the writer
Don’t be sad. I remember that once you were golden. Now the gold has darkened to sepia but sometimes still the light shines through in flashes of the old gold when you remember. Don’t be sad. I still remember the gold and nothing lasts for ever not even memories.
––––––––––––– “I write to let the words escape.” – the writer
I keep running along a trail, down a narrow path, up a steep hill, around a high school track, jogging and sprinting, I need to run fast, counting my hours, minutes, and seconds on a stopwatch.
Don’t want to creep along, crawling like an infant in a loose-fitting diaper, who doesn’t know the difference from a 10K and a 100-meter.
I run to elude old age, keep my body slim and toned, to be a super-flash extraordinaire that nobody’s going to catch Like a lightning bolt from the sky, I move through a slow-paced world, across the final finish line.
“I write to document the stories in my head.” – the writer