I Am a Poet

I am a poet
who doesn’t write poetry

No, that’s not true
I am a poet
incapable of writing poetry

that’s not true either
I am capable
but my mind cannot go there
to that creative alcove
where my poetry takes shape
swims and lives

instead, my mind sits
frozen by depression
awaiting an image or phrase
to ignite and free it

I am capable
I am a poet

I am

A Typical Day

these bones rarely want to move
when the sun rises
they’d rather linger, linger
no matter how much I ache

and then the furball pounces
on feet and face
reminds me it’s time to feed
him and me

so it’s up to pee
then crunchies and water for him
take blood sugar and insulin for me
and finally breakfast (or lunch)

play ball with the puss while I read
emails and newsletters and poetry
and then I try to write something, anything
but often I fail

finally it’s nap time
and I curl up with black fur
as we sleep long into the day
only to be awaken by him, come home

It is a wash, rinse and wash again moment
up to pee, play with the fur, eat
try to write
and then the need to sleep, again

each night I am left with the knowledge
napping does not write poetry
but then again, neither does depression
and so I sleep

 

From The Daily Post, Rare Medium

Sweet June

“In summer, the song sings itself.” ~William Carlos Williams

The heat envelopes me
as bugs cling to my sweat
and I am left holding my breath —
a sure sign that summer is here

June, you pretty darling
why are you singing so?

I once yearned for your songs –
the lyrics of birds
the chatter of squirrels
the laughter of kin in the creek
Such sweet melodies!

What’s become of me, Sweet June?

Now I stow away inside my room —
I’ve tuned my ear to the hum
of artificial air – an artificial life
Only at night do the call of the crickets
break through – and I remember you