barely clinging to awake
I write
imagining everything
but editing nothing
dangerous freedom
writer
Poem #577
retiree lives on the island
with his wife and daughter
every morning they sit on the porch
eating bagels and jam
the ocean is calm
the birds are lively
retiree reads the newspaper
wife sips her coffee
daughter types
every afternoon they sit on the porch
drinking tea and lemonade
their dog is napping
the bees are buzzing
retiree does a crossword puzzle
wife crochets a sweater for her sister
daughter types
every evening they sit on the porch
nibbling chicken and pesto paninis
the birds are quiet
the wind is blowing
retiree plays with dog
wife pens a letter to her mother
daughter types
they stay there until they die
daughter moves away
but she still types
Loving My Own Poems
As I continuously chip away at the mountain of poetry I’ve written since 2015, I get to sift through the dust and bones of my momentary thoughts. Most of the time, I cringe. Seriously, I thought that was remotely good? Yes, yes, I did. But then some days the poems I transcribe to this website actually make me smile.
It’s mainly the story-driven poems that I discover I love. The ones that set a small scene and surprise me a year later with my sometimes morbid, sometimes starry-eyed and hopeful plots. In Poem #568 and Poem #570, I wrote what I would describe as horror poems, which is probably not my usual fair. Mostly, I just loved reading them. It was a good feeling. I really wish I knew what I had been doing those days to have those poems pop into my brain.
Maybe it’s a bit narcissistic of me, but I love those poems. They are unpolished and off-the-cuff. They are also fun to read.
Anyway, feel free to comment with how you feel about your old poetry! Do you love it? Do you want to burn it? Why?