Sometimes I forget
what writing is
or how it is
instead I worry
about how I'm perceived.
Write about what?
Another poem about a bee:
there is a bee lying dead in my bathroom
I think it was the orchids in the shampoo.
And what of bees hold such fascination for me?
I like their gentle buzz but not when they are in my house.
I didn't want to pick it up
I did in the end,
and threw it out the window.
Sitting here in my work(bed)room, I'm feeding
my laptop with power;
what's in this open window?
A poem about rain, a favorite thing,
how, just before the storms come,
the sun shines an eerie light, filtered
through grey too thick for rainbows
like depression simply is.
a half finished poem about kids going to school,
trudging along with heavy bags carrying
their future; you can read their ambitions
brightly highlighted in luminous shades
in the notes they stare into the whole bus trip,
memorizing important points to carry with them
until the school year is out --
just as well, none of these things matter
in the end, it's all about timing,
courage, luck, and the people you get to know.
back into the folders and drawers these things go.
Someday my thoughts on these will be complete,
by then you will not recognize them, nor me.
I try to avoid writing "me" poems but hopefully this one reads like a lighthearted one.