Tuesday, April 20, 2021


Poem #23

The mistake we make

With some of our poems

Is thinking we can package

The lightning flash of a life

Into a compact series of lines,

That it’s just a matter of choosing well;

Words, faces, scenes,

Glimpses into the sublime

Or the surreal,

Even the anodyne

When circumstances call.

Look, I’ve bundled a bouquet

Of wild flowers and you’re 

Already reaching for the vase.

You’re across the room

While everyone is chattering

But I’ve already caught your eyes.

Poems aren’t just lies

That capture the truths

Of everyday life.

The big poem is perpetually ongoing. 

It never tires or stops to rest.

It never had a beginning

And the stanzas keep coming

From us, as life demands.

Sure, we forget our words,

Miss a chance to make a rhyme

And maybe lose the rhythm

From time to time.

This one here, for example,

Is starting to wrap itself up.

I’ve done all I can to keep it alive

Verse after desperate verse.

I’m not ready for it to end 

But I’ve run out of words

And lost the cadence.

So I pass the page to you

And let you borrow my pen.

It’s up to you to keep it going

Or be the one who writes, the end.


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