#authorship
Within the hedge, I walk
in circles around my garden
to defend it
Urchins and vandals
think I'm crazy
and don't belong here
From the roof ridge, I search
the area, the neighbours
come to watch, I stay put
no more afraid than I want to be
If I fall, I've done it myself
although I don't want to slide down
over the smooth tiles
Below me, they quietly
discuss my situation
I wave to them
and give them a thumbs-up
They can go without any worries
Dec 12, 2025
Dec 12, 2025 at 4:05 AM UTC
I seclude myself
in two rooms: one made of stone --
and one made of time.
May 12, 2024
May 12, 2024 at 3:55 AM UTC
Am I vindictive?
With flaming sword, an angel --
telling you the truth?
Aug 2, 2023
Aug 2, 2023 at 3:48 AM UTC
The bookkeeper counts
the legacy, a drawer --
filled up with poems.
Jul 25, 2023
Jul 25, 2023 at 3:59 AM UTC
So I'm a poet,
which was once just a pose, but --
I conformed to it.
Jul 11, 2023
Jul 11, 2023 at 4:17 AM UTC
With scraps of paper
I am lighting little lights --
in hearts of readers.
Aug 24, 2022
Aug 24, 2022 at 3:30 AM UTC
I have not that divine intercession
to pluck the right word from all been written,
that gifts to few the art of expression,
to write the poetry of the smitten.
I pen verses of no significance
that sing melodies in my ear of tin,
embarrassments to poets of romance
in whose company I wish I were in.
Oh, to write odes to nightingales and urns,
with love as an extension of my quill!
Although I do not lack passion that burns,
I’ve not the talent that matches my will.
Here is another literary blight
authored by one who just thinks he can write.
Aug 18, 2019
Aug 18, 2019 at 5:58 AM UTC
you are authentic
you are authoring truth
you are your story
but you're telling it, too
it is clear to me
you have work to do
but please,
write me in
when that chapter
is through
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 4:49 PM UTC
hands write
and change
reveal yourself somehow to us
learnèd and interested
everything differs
yet minds
seldom betray one’s own soul
connected dissonant chords
reconnected silently
ink will
be eventually immortalized for all
exceptional neon hands
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 11:05 PM UTC
Where, I ask, exhausted, did my creativity go?
Was it shadowed by my many burdens
and finally let go?
Did I forget to save a seat for it
while I rode the highway of life –
carrying every ounce of every day
in a heavy sack by my side?
Did I leave my creativity far behind
and outside of the boundaries
I once hungered to avoid reviving in my mind?
Or has it leapt ahead of me,
light-years away to a time
I could never expect to write or reach?
And will it only greet me again
in the next life
in shoes that another more
worldly and traveled other would wear
better than the ones I, alone, attempt to fit?
Have I,
just a here-and-now speck of dust
that tumbles aimlessly along,
reached the limit I somehow self-inflicted
earlier on
to stop me from rhyming more
about what I might never know,
or perhaps, am never meant to find?
Shall my questions be the soothing pets
that follow me like loyal friends
but somehow stay an arms length away
and whisper secrets I could never
– even with a stethoscope –
allow myself to hear?
Knowing what I know, would I detain them
to keep them near?
Shall I, neither ancient, nor elder,
try to understand the heart-beat silence that,
like a disease, runs impatiently through these veins?
If it returned, would my creative other
fall like pounding rain into my arms and dissolve itself of any sin
by becoming, yet again, a part of what it once was in?
Would my creativity starve, or feast,
by sinking and syncing deep within?
If I handed it the keys, I am certain
we would both deserve to win;
but neither I can, and neither it will,
because without each other
we simply
– both –
are frozen, less, and still.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 8:00 PM UTC