I need to remember to
write a poem before
the reaper takes me
takes me,
takes me like he took all the others.
Those
fallen down pieces of
granite were people just like
us,
fallen and unremembered by
everybody,
like my father.
There are many now
who don’t remember my
father but who
may remember me
and may someday read these
scribblings which
a nobody moron
loser like me
at least took the time to
write.
So write,
leave scribblings on the walls
of your cave.
***
Posting poems in the night for
you who read me,
somewhere in this world.
Oh I have done it for so long now.
I may have published
the first poem on the net.
It went
Hello World.
“Hello Ball”,
said Art Carney.
I roll the ball toward
some overwhelming question
without an answer
and tell you that
beauty is truth.
Then a few judge
whether I
said it
well enough.
when all I wanted, really,
all you wanted
was to hear the words
rain drops fall off the leaf.
It Looks like another poem
is waiting among the roses
or the thorns
or maybe the sidewalks,
hoping for sidewalks
instead of muddy paths,
muddy paths and
muddy lives.
Hoping for better
is better than
nothing.
Hoping for better
child
is always
better than wasting away
thinking life is
so unfair,
which it is,
which it is.
Humble hands must work
Humble hearts must try.
Humility is beauty, and
Beauty is truth.