I take a set of writer blocks
arrange them into words
take a guitar -- I know, it rocks!
and mix in a few chords
Now, if I dare, I might just sing
I know you think I ought.
And that my friend, is how some thing
can come from what was naught
Author notes: image from Amazon
Tours to Turin are quite rare.
If you've got the time to spare,
you must go to see the shroud
even if there is a crowd.
If it truly is of Jesus
you must show it to the missus;
Either way, it can't be missed!
Get it off your bucket list.
I'm envious. This, my well guarded secret,
I hadn't shared with anyone before.
I know that somewhere out there lives an eaglet,
a boy I'm truly jealous of, and more.
I'm envious of how he fights his battles
I wasn't this straightforward or so brave.
I'm envious of how he laughs and prattles,
ignoring admonitions to behave.
His body showing signs of bumps and scratches, -
where I was nicely combed, clean and preserved.
My books were my adventures and my catches
He will not miss those, envy thus deserved.
He will be honest, principled, and forward
denouncing evil means despite their ends
whereas I put my quill down, thinking: "akward" --
he will say: "Needed", sticking to his pens
No knot, however Gordian, will stop him
where I will neither cut it, nor untie.
When he falls into love, that love will bind him,
and I, even when falling, will deny.
My jealousy well hidden, I'll keep smiling.
I will pretend I do not understand:
"Well, nobody is perfect", reconciling,
"Not everyone is meant to take a stand".
"To each his own", I'll try with pomp and fanfare.
It doesn't seem to do me any good.
I can't forget that he is out there, somewhere,
accomplishing what I did not, but could
Author notes: Завидую я. Этого секрета не раскрывал я раньше никому. Я знаю, что живет мальчишка где-то, и очень я завидую ему. Завидую тому, как он дерется,- я не был так бесхитростен и смел. Завидую тому, как он смеется,- я так смеяться в детстве не умел. Он вечно ходит в ссадинах и шишках,- я был всегда причесанней, целей. Все те места, что пропускал я в книжках, он не пропустит. Он и тут сильней. Он будет честен жесткой прямотою, злу не прощая за его добро, и там, где я перо бросал: "Не стоит!"- он скажет: "Стоит!"- и возьмет перо. Он если не развяжет, так разрубит, где я ни развяжу, ни разрублю. Он, если уж полюбит, не разлюбит, а я и полюблю, да разлюблю. Я скрою зависть. Буду улыбаться. Я притворюсь, как будто я простак: "Кому-то же ведь надо ошибаться, кому-то же ведь надо жить не так". Но сколько б ни внушал себе я это, твердя: "Судьба у каждого своя",- мне не забыть, что есть мальчишка где-то, что он добьется большего, чем я.
The poet as an introvert:
can such a thing be true?
Can sharpened pencils be diverted,
thoughts kept out of view?
Can colors, vivid in their hues,
be filtered into grey?
Can the guitarist mute his blues,
the notes be kept at bay?
I know you fear the written word:
you feel you can't translate
the freedom of a flying bird;
can't capture love or hate
Indeed you must, it's up to you.
Sit down, and try to write
Each poet thought just as you do
You've just begun to fight.
Author notes: https://allpoetry.com/contest/2802602-Fyodor-Tyutchev-poem-prompt
crow as black as night
prone to prognostication
Edgar Allan Poe
I take my poetry anywhere I feel like.
Even on a plane.
Recently I was typing a poem up,
and the lady sitting next to me
grabbed me by the you know what
and whispered:
"are you really going to do that,
while I do this?"
The lady was my wife.
But you get the point.
Author notes: https://allpoetry.com/contest/2802554-WE-write-poetry--but-where-are-you-going-wi
President Biden
On his bike, riding
If Kamala calls
Don't tell her he falls
As Occam's Razor cuts into my veins
and faith bleeds out, a crimson rivulet,
belief dries up. What little still remains
is ritual I struggle to forget.
Old habits, tired, threadbare and well worn,
refuse all my attempts. I am indeed
as pious as I've been since I've been born,
an empty grail devoid of call or creed.
It's not the most original of sins,
this emptiness, and others of my kind,
as doubt creeps in and questioning begins,
confine it to a recess of the mind.
There it will grow, apparently benign
until it overwhelms every defense,
and miracles, once lustrous, lose their shine.
Your life, as it turns turns out, is a pretense.
The universe may seek observant souls
but it's wholly indifferent to our fate.
No playwright to assign us to our roles;
no checklist to confirm against some slate.
The simplest explanation, and it fits:
all that there's ever been, shall ever be:
a quanta forced to choose between two slits
one day it chooses you; another, me.
The bottom of the barrel: oh my god!
A sonnet? How'd you get here? How, old boy?
You promised me no more... or did you not?
Must be some new and unexpected ploy.
I thought we said just lim'ricks and haiku?
The goal has been accessibility.
And yet we're here again, because of you!
Iambic, "yes I am" ability.
Must you respond to every such request?
Can you not spare us roses that are red?
Desist, your wit is an unwelcome guest
and everything you've thought of has been said.
Oh well. Give thanks, at least it's not free verse,
the bane of modern poets, and their curse.
The giant stuck his salad fork
right on the intersection,
and promised: back right after work,
I hope there's no objection.
Come back he did, but not too soon,
his job did keep him late.
The good news, though, he kept his spoon
for lunch. That's how he ate.
Implored, and more than once, to show, not tell,
I've nonetheless avoided ASCII art;
though in response -- no tougher clientele --
agreed to split my paragraphs apart.
I struggle, still, with this unbidden rule.
Though pictures may be worth their weight in gold,
the alphabet remains a useful tool,
and stories, without telling, can't be told.
Is there some tongue in cheek to my response?
Hope I've not bitten more than I can chew,
and this -- though no Petrarchan Renaissance --
is where the couplet bids to say adieu.
A poem need not be a picture show,
and adjectives alone don't make it so.
As Occam's Razor cuts into my veins
and faith bleeds out, a crimson rivulet,
belief dries up. What little still remains
is relic, ritual I can't forget
Old habits, tired, threadbare and well worn,
refuse all my attempts. I am indeed
as pious as I've been since I was born,
an empty grail devoid of call or creed.
It's not the most original of sins,
this emptiness, and others of my kind,
as doubt creeps in and questioning begins,
confine it to a recess of the mind
There it will grow, apparently benign
until it overwhelms every defense,
and miracles, once lustrous, lose their shine.
Your way of life, turns out, is a pretense.