One and done #5

Square stucco ceiling tiles,
Bland cream color,
Maybe yellowed white.
Who knows how old
They are
being replaced.
Shiny new crisp steel ceiling.
The first improvement to this office,
In only God knows how long.
And I am here at my cubicle.
If those old tiles were yellowed,
What will my time here do to me?
At least the tiles are now retired.
And me? Only time will tell
In 40, 50, 60 years?

If you are wondering about the title “one and done” go back to the first “one and done” I wrote and it has an explanation of what I am doing when I write a one and done poem. The title says most of it. No editing no process just the poem as it comes. I hope you enjoy my other stuff.

One and done #2

I don’t like this one as much as my previous one and done, but that is what this exercise is for; to write and play with new ideas. If you’ve ever driven through Kansas you’ll understand how I’m feeling now. Enjoy.

One and done #2

It kind of sucks driving through Kansas.
Big sky country is stretching wide open air.
Yawning I gently close my eyes,
To dream of more exciting places.

I open my eyes and I’m still in Kansas?
I slept six hours, this really isn’t fair.
I just want to be out of here without saying goodbyes.
So I drive faster not to leave any traces.

But really Kansas you KAN kisS my ASs

Thoughts on writing

Pardon me for taking a break from poetry for this post. While I intended this blog to be most entirely poetry, it is my blog and as such I shall be permitted to write whatsoever I should like. So permit me to delve into the straight forward, self reflective style of writing for the remainder of this post, and be sure to know that yes it will relate to poetry by the end.

Today as I walked through a cold yet gentle rain falling on my jacket I found myself slipping into reflective thought. As I sat in class, or at work, and as I walked the halls of my university I continued to think. My mind wandered from poetry to philosophy. From adventure to love and from life to death. I pondered myself and those I observed around me.

I realized all of my thought was ordered towards rational understanding. An understanding of who I am and where I am going. As I walked past other people and overheard their conversations I began to question their reason for living and their reason for acting. I found myself profoundly unable to grasp their experience. Hearing a few seconds of conversation to my left I looked to see an excited conversation. Humorously intrigued however, I did not know how another person could so emphatically converse about a topic I found so dull and uninteresting. Later I experienced myself questioning the motivation of many people I passed. I judged them to be striving only for recognition and accolades.

This moved me to question why any of us do anything we do. Is it for title or recognition that we pursue a venture? Is it from social pressure that we make our decisions to act in this or that way? What is it we feel that drives us to action? What is this experience of pursuit that we all feel?

If you have read this far, thank you. If you have found yourself hopeful that I have an answer for these questions I have posed, I must regrettably say I do not have those answers. So now you may be asking why I have shared all of these thoughts. I presented these thoughts to you to show why I write.

I do not have the answers to life’s questions, but I live daily, seeking, growing, developing, loving and learning. I cannot experience the life of another, but I can profoundly experience my own life. I can share my stories and I can read or hear others stories. It is in this experience of the life which is intelligible and yet inexplicable that we seek our purpose. We experience the universal, the divine. We experience something greater than ourselves and we know it and yet cannot explain it.

This is why I write. I write because I experience and am seeking understanding. I can create a new world, characters, and stories to help shed light upon the experience of life. Through literature we can dive into universal experience. We can dive towards truth. We can seek understanding.

In conclusion. should you have read this far, I urge you to continue reading, writing, searching and loving. Encounter the universal encounter the divine and live this life you were blessed with. Why? You may ask. God only knows the answer to that, but never stop striving toward that why.

May God bless you.

Why to write

For why to write?
Ideas may ignite.

The written word
Is power unstirred.

Ideas can spread, understood by the head,
But then they are fed to the heart.

But an idea unsaid is an idea unread.
Therefore unspread an idea is dead from the start.

What of an idea bad?
They can turn the world mad.

Untempered power,
Will soon turn sour.

This is the tale, caution’s your scale,
Let truth prevail in speech.

With travail we cannot fail,
To follow this trail, for truth to avail we must teach.

My vain poetic prayer in prose.

Yes it is true,
I’ll ask any I can find
to read my works and comment
so that I may bathe in the glory
of their moderately amused response.

I seek no expert
For their opinion
Will force me change.
And I do not revise who
I am.

And So I look at my writings
That I so craftily threw together in
only about as much time as
I ask my readers to waste
by reading what I have writ.


I find my philosophy dreary in
comparison to Dostoevsky.

I am no Tolkien,
for too constricted is my imagination.

And though I fancy myself a “Poe”
I am no Edgar Allen Poet.

My words are not worth much as
I am no Wordsworth either.

But I can rhyme at least some of the time
but still not like Seuss or Silverstein.

And even though I know
The little value of what I write
I feel I have something to say.

I do not care at all of what
you say of me,
But also weep for recognition,
and glory in what meager compliments
I gain in thrusting a paper
before your face.

Vanity of vanities,
My words are a mere breath,
Passing away in the wind,
And will I be remembered?
Likely I will not.

And so I find solace now
In my memory of the
Tangible yet trivial
Compliments I receive
In passing exhibitions
of my work to whoever will read.

And when I sit with
Pen in hand, I hate myself
For writing,
and hate myself more
For not being able to stop.

I call myself an artist.
Not because I fill galleries,
Or capture imaginations,
But because I cannot be anything else.

In striving to find my Pieta,
Searching for my Sistine chapel,
Or mastering a Mona Lisa,
All I produce is vanities.
And vainly seek recognition.

All I cling to is the hope that
In cosmic coincidence
A reader will one day
Cross paths with my work
And be transformed, inspired
Comforted, or aided.

And I will be remembered
At least in that moment.
And though this is
My selfish desire, I hope
For my work to inspire
Even if I am forgotten.

This is my prayer
That God who can do anything,
Will use my vain words
To speak His truth.

And so I write.