some old thangs

I miss writing poetry.  I recently bought a small pack of moleskine “mini journals” to begin writing poems again.
I used to be decent… I think…
I’ve always preferred short, simple poems with depth over long, detailed ones.  The challenge of being able to press incredibly deep emotions in to so few lines is amazing when done properly, plus, it’s easier to maintain the interest of the poem-reader.  Something Emily Dickinson knew how to do well.  I’m not claiming that I’ve done this all the right way, but this explains the length of the poems.

Here are a few poems from the past:

The match meets the box
The wick has browned
It’s remainder dances
But dwindles down

xx not title xx
To feel so much –
There is no better thought to humble –
The turmoil of it’s darkest hour.

The Plague
Through the many suns
Does love exist?
A colossal feeling
of pain and bliss.

Hold little,
but fill large bellies.
All upon a gesture.
How swell!
An arm –
To be so humble,
To fill my needs
Even when the taste is foul.

The storm drew back
a hell of breath
That blew rain across the open fields
It licked low-
To the thirst of the bare
And I still know not why-
I weep with despair

xx no title xx
Love, like a balloon
Slowly losing air
Soft and soggy
Though sharp edges become less threatening
The shape loses it’s will
And becomes submissive

I like to pretend
That I am very clever
But mostly, I’m not


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