Thursday, January 12, 2017

an old poem

Every so often something overtakes me and I try to write poetry, or, more accurately, something like the following happens. This is from about 12 years ago. It is about a life I left behind. I just re-read it and a few others from that period, and I think some of it is kinda okay. So, for what it's worth...

I’d tried a thousand ways 
to worry through life,
caught in the romantic 
allure of despair, bemoaning 
our Heehaw anxieties,
bad luck and gloom, the 
cartoon violence of drunks 
bouncing each other off 
the walls or searching 
for mermaids in the bay 
like Prufrock heroes.

But I gave up on the ghost 
at last, and tossed out spare 
skeletons to boot, and if I 
didn’t smile at least I felt it.

Not all those empty bottles lined 
up beside the sink belonged to me,
lest you forget; and you know 
the dirty plates aren’t mine; but if 
you insist we both spoiled the nest 
at least we worked together. I’ll 
cop to that, alright. And I’ll take 
some blame for wreckage, and 
that will surely make me smile.
I can’t be made to fret about it.

What’s fair, what’s deserved, what’s 
to be done, what’s to come - I used 
to believe in answers to these 
unlucky questions, but I was 
older then and felt the stakes 
driven further and further up. 
I’ve wised up to the risk.
Now I’m never certain and 
I’m certain that it’s best.

I’m not alone. I’m not weary.
I’m living off the dividends 
of misspent youth: pointless 
delight and days with no end,
careless concern and grave hope.

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