“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.

I published a children’s book
So that I could say I was a writer
Before then it was just
Scratches in my notebook
Notes in my phone
Conversations in my head

That first month
After the publishing
And the handling
The marketing
distributing

I had 18 cents
That said I can do this
And so I probably will

Emotions made tender, but fair, fearing not the outside,
to what is felt inside, to play in eternity, to think in infinity,
be only that a paradox is, nothing else, nothing more, nothing
less, attempt to avoid despair and crying mood. As for you,
Bill, if the world is a stage, than the death penalty only applies
to the casting director. There is greatness outside poems,
romance too, sunburnt smiles and laughing memories.
Though for now, I shall write only about my death, fear, insecurity,
fault and flaws in written poetry. Not for comfort in. Just glittering
drops of silver stars, as for others to benefit from. It is worrying
only to be a paradox, living within immortality.

I'll try to write this in a poem
don't know if I can, we'll see

there's a book being formed
includes some folks from HP

has pictures, stories and poems
"Forever In Our Hearts" it's called

if you've wanted to be published
here's a chance, your family will be
enthralled

it's for a good cause as well you see
half of proceeds will go to rescues

of those wonderful pets who become family
who just might have inspired your muse

There are things,
we write about
because
we don’t have the strength
to speak them.

Unpublished,
sitting in secret journals
or folders on phones,
harsh enough to bring
tears to every mans eye.

Times of attempts,
death, troubled loves,
childhoods too traumatic to share —
we see no resolutions.

I wonder,
if that’s why
occasionally a poets
most emotional works
are not found until
their death.