Last Poem I'll Write

No More Poetry

I am done. I am through. I am feeling so free'd
I might paint; take a walk or a nap; pull a weed.
Either way, I am finished. A free man indeed!
No more counting or tapping the beats on my knee.
No more searching for words that might say what I need
To be said. You know what? I'm all through. Can you see
What I mean? I can write but I won't. I'll be me
And just sit, read a book. Be a veg. Watch TV.
There's no money in it so it's not about greed.
I'm no good at this stuff and it makes my brain bleed.
So that's it. I'm all done. I've begun to be free.
I'm not kidding. I'm through. Just quit reading this screed.
Go about your own business and please leave me be.

Howl

I'm thinking about the poem called Howl

How Ginsberg yelled into the world

a shout out to everyone

he was not pleased he said

the time had come for change he said

How shocking it was they said

how utterly the wrong way to do it they said

and yet it came to be

I am wondering where the howls are today

Is my cat the only one howling

looking out the window seeing sheets of grey everywhere

on the land

on the trees

on the buildings

which truthfully are beige and gray

monstrosities gobbling up the land

covering every blade of grass with cheap siding,

faux 17^th century ornament

Grecian columns to pin it all down

Does it make any difference

the one lone howl I make

sitting by my window

seeing only winter and grey things

while others hours away

are frolicking in sun and sand

under perpetual blooms

who cares to hear me howl anyway

poem#4 of 30

Aliens

I had a weird conversation the other day

she told me her husband believes

no, really believes,

that aliens live among us

and in the spirit of live and let live

and everyone is allowed to believe what they want

I said, “He does?”

in a calm monotone

and she asked me what I believed

Nothing, I said

Nothing? Not even God?

And I could feel her wanting to help me

trying to bring me over to her side

pitying me for being so empty

But why would I fill up with the empty calories

of sweet belief systems

that do not stick to me

poem#3 of 30

reconciliation

I'm trying to reconcile

letting each day slip past me

like a wet starchy shirt I can't get a grip on

tumbling onto a floor full of grit and sand

embedding whatever broke its fall

into the weave of its fibres

I am trying to reconcile

allowing the days to run past

morning to night

with nothing in between

not even a sinkful of dishes to break the stream of minutes

from one day to the next

I am trying to reconcile

all the time I waste

thrown away like I have a steady supply

in the corner I need only lift the lid

take a few more years out

and we're good to go

even though I let so many perfectly fine ones

shrivel up like houseplants I forgot to water

poem#2 of 30

Two experimental poetic forms

A Cadae (3.1415):

You ask me:
Who?
I answer back:
Why?
Leaving things unsaid.

A Fibonacci (1/1/2/3/5/8):

You
Smile
And frown
Both at once.
How do you do it?
And why does it trouble me so?

Poem 3

Running on Empty

Ol' Jackson Browne had sung a song that said
"In '65 I was seventeen…"
We're of an age, JB and I. Not dead
As yet but near enough. I was naïve.

I knew that soon the "olds" would die and we
Would sail upon a Sea of Love and Peace.
The Beatles sang to me: "You won't see me."
I thought for sure my joy would not decrease.

So Camelot was strong and Truth was "cool".
I left the arc of the new age to those
That had the time to spare and cared to rule.
Their life was poetry and mine was prose.

Now nearly fifty years since then have gone.
I think my life's been good. I'm not ashamed
and fairly free of deeds I wish undone,
with fewer sins for which I could be blamed.

My one regret I now declare I see:
I let my brothers set my course for me.
I'll say to readers born in '96:
You cannot leave it all for them to fix.

Mike's Poem 2

My Kitten Zane

A thinking man might see from watching pets
A lesson he will need to learn again:
My young gray cat repays the food he gets
With lessons on the art of play. Young Zane
Will fetch a crumpled wad I toss; it's plain
To me that when he hunts that simple toy
I throw, he thinks it is the real McCoy.

He stalks, he runs, he bats. He wrestles. It's fetched,
Presented at my shoe as prey. And yet,
No living mouse survives the hunt so wretched.
"It's paper, Zane, not food. Besides, it's wet!"
Who teaches whom? And though he's just a pet,
Those yellow eyes are locked on me: Um, dude?
I hunt. You don't. How is it misconstrued?"