Have you ever eaten so much
you got queasy or worse
found the porcelain god in your clutch
cursed yourself as dumb and perverse?

It’s really no joking matter to me
as now I picture myself there
pitifully low on bended knee
in need of an earnest prayer:

Lord, may I never again return
nor forget this impulse that brings me low
lead me to a more worthy food and learn
to shout to my ***** craving: Whoa!

“It is our function as artists to make the spectator see the world our way not his.”   - Mark Rothko

From where does this doubt in my poetself come?
A neglectful or ignorant adult
or my alienated teenage years?
A therapist could better declare
all the stuff from my past that impaired
my image, security or sense of self
find the dark corners in my mental health.
So I’ll leave it to all the shrinks
to discover why I think what I think.

Why so reluctant to publish a book
or collection of my work
make a website known far and wide?
I still don’t know what that’s about
but I hate the damnable doubt
in my poetic abilities and skill
and loathe my comparisons to the greats
getting even close seems so uphill.

But that Rothko quote makes sense.
It frees me
and lets ME be.

I’m not forcing anyone to do anything my way
but when others read a poem of mine
they are invited into my mind
to take a piece of my heart
and see my world that moment of that day.
There is no force involved
it was their choice to read
and I’m grateful they took the time
to linger with my verse or rhyme.

I love that old Sinatra song My Way
it might have had a self-centered air,
but it was a courageous thing to declare.

I also give thanks for those brave enough
to post their poems in public
to reveal to strangers and self-disclose.
It IS like taking off your clothes
to let us see what’s underneath
and I thank the gods that be
for a momentary journey into those worlds
to try on the artist’s priceless pearls.

Writing poetry is an exercise
in making myself rise
from ordinary preoccupation
to enter the realm of creation.

When I share it I am revealing
thoughts, doings, and feeling,
so I need not hesitate to share
or bore those who care.

A poem might not be art
but it is a letter from my heart
more than a quick posting
or social media boasting.

So if you do not receive a sealed letter
from me in the mail, a poem is better.
It is a moment of being bold
of sharing a small slice of my soul.

Getting a poem from a poet or friend
is an honor for me and I will attend
and count it a privilege worth prizing
a noble moment of the creator’s rising.

The small dinghy drifts
on the surface of the sea
its grayed gunnels, hull
and vacant crossbars
betray its age
but its persistent float
speaks its worth.

Without a bold goal
its life at the mercy of currents and winds
it drifts
but still it floats.

It would be easy to feel pity
for this tiny rudderless vessel
to condemn it to the depths
for its aimless oblivious
drift.

But this modest creation
a dinky dinghy
still floats
rises, falls, bobs,
and wobbles
a survivor of sojourns
she remains

a mocking
clocking
launch
of hope.

Walking out to the mailbox
I breathe in the cool scent of fall
and from nowhere in particular
a memory of me running out for a pass
in the vacant lot - our neighborhood stadium -
where teenage boys
felt the thrill of freedom
in their lungs and limbs.

The cinnamon smoke
of a red candle
reminds me of my aunt Madeline
who prayed before the vigil light on her home altar,
and told me of her visions of the ******,
taught me the joy of faith and sacred music
and being a special nephew
destined for something higher.

Driving west on I-20 at 6:00pm
the layered gold and coral clouds on the horizon
bring back a trip to Colorado
pulling our little camper trailer
driving toward high altitude adventure.

I thank my muse
for drifting in a momentary breeze
through the crack in the window
officiating at this marriage
of memory and writing.

The winds and bright dying
of the leaves of fall
have brushed away the turning season
into the callous cold of winter
leaving behind a brown texture
of oak and pecan
scattered on the still green lawn
where they rest humbly,
their identity as living species
shriveling into the fog of memory.

I wonder what I can learn
from those leaves and the trees
who gently let go of all the little lives
and lay them on the ground
first to decay and then transform
from drying aching olding  
into a mysterious unfolding.