We Left Him In The Wasteland

We left him in the Wasteland
Under canopy of mammoth bone
And the tepid remains
Of other species overthrown.
He fell, stumbled perhaps,
And faced the flooded grave
Of some dead and fallen star.
In the pool, not even a wave.
We left him there
For we could not see
What paroxysm seized his mind
And refashioned it an endless plea
What antithesis he found in reflection
What evil puzzle of the soul
He would not say
and we cannot know
The glee of his spite
His despair, like a vow
We could not eulogize
For none of us knew how
He was our brother 
By blood and by corps.
Now, a raw unending sough
Crying “I will bear this pain no more”

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I Wanted To Be a Writer

I wanted to be a writer
To tell tales and make fun
Of the world and all its peril
But I was the one undone.
I wanted to be a writer
To prove that I could hum
A tune of such beauty,
It could never be unsung.
I wanted to be a writer
But I never learned to sing.
And so I sit, miscounting meters, pondering
Why I wanted to be a writer
When all I can do is cringe.

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The Breakthrough

[I was really impressed by Mark Strand’s The Prediction, so I thought I’d try writing a poem of similar theme and meter- enjoy (or not).]

The inevitable flotsam builds blocks in my cranal canals,
erecting an enormous weir, but bunching behind
the wall, that now bubbling barrier,
bright pulpy ideas, and eager sparkling juice
begin to burst through the damaged dam;
out come pouring coalescing creations, greeting
and mixing with their jetsam kin, their forms
gaining defining dimensions, the flow pushing them forward,
the children of the brain evolving into comprehension, appendages growing out of them,
detailing a nowhere universe, I am discerning them now
and am seen seeing them, and seeing this they are running away,
unto a page they splash and land, splash and might flounder.

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