Why I Don’t Write Poetry

Some say writing poetry’s easy,

so perhaps I should give it a try.

But I don’t think I have any talent,

guess I’m just not a “poetry guy”.

Takes a wordsmith to write a good poem,

one with wit, intellectual style.

An Angelou, Poe, or Neruda,

whose skill exceeds mine by a mile.

A writer who knows human frailty,

with feeling, compassion, and grace,

who understands life’s many heartaches,

skills not found in any-old place.

There’s the haiku, limerick, and quatrain,

these all have a strange, foreign sound.

Some thing called iambic pentameter,

which just makes my head start to pound!

Should it rhyme or should it be free verse?

That’s one of the really big questions.

What topic to pick for a poem?

I would certainly need some suggestions.

I’ll leave poems to those with the skill

and wisdom brought on by the years,

who’ve suffered and felt deep emotion,

who have, for their art, shed the tears.

A story for me is challenge enough,

with beginning, middle, and end.

But poetry’s too far beyond me,

so to my simple stories I’ll tend.

The Night’s Final Patron At Mike’s Place (New York, 1945)

It’s almost closing time

He’s wiping down the bar

Door opens with a chime

She’s like a movie star

He’s wiping down the bar

She takes a seat and smiles

She’s like a movie star

Her eyes betray no guile

She takes a seat and smiles

He knows her from somewhere

Her eyes betray no guile

With languid gaze she stares

He knows her from somewhere

She breathes a blessed sigh

With languid gaze she stares

He hears the word “goodbye”

She breathes a blessed sigh

No movement of her lips

He hears the word “goodbye”

From this realm he slips

No movement of her lips

Door closes with no chime

From this realm he slips

It’s finally closing time

WHEN I’M AN OLD MAN I’LL WEAR HAWAIIAN SHIRTS

A day is quickly approaching for me

when my wardrobe will change considerably.

The cufflinks and ties, the shined leather shoes?

Discarded items I’ll no longer use!

You see I will be a retiree soon,

drop out of the rat race and sing my own tune.

Shed fine tailored suits, that modern-day armor,

rediscover the man who was once quite a charmer.

I’ll move to an island, a tropical place

where tradewinds blow gently, caressing my face.

No dress code for me, a thing of the past,

just flip-flops and cut-offs whose colors contrast.

A fine braided hammock, between two trees tied

beneath shady palms is where I will lie.

Ukulele caressed, I’ll strum a few songs,

stare up at the sky watching clouds float along.

I’ll stroll to the beach where my boat’s in the bay,

go fishing or crabbing, I can’t really say.

Have one beer or two as the afternoon wanes,

read books I’d no time for in past busy days.

Bright shirts I will wear, the louder the better

in that pleasant land where I won’t need a sweater.

I’ll laugh and relax with much time for play...

and consider how quickly it all slipped away.

Listening To The Sky

I stand on the plains of San Agustin,

my face pointed up to the sky.

My only job is to listen

as the universe cartwheels by.

My brothers they stand alongside me

twenty-seven we number in all.

Radio telescope monoliths,

over one hundred feet tall.

We are The Very Large Array,

our masters are flesh and bone,

we hear quasars, pulsars, novas

in the vast, galactic unknown.

Things human eyes can’t see,

about which they puzzle and wonder;

gamma ray geysers, gaseous clouds,

extraterrestrial thunder.

Knowledge they seek, questions they ask,

phenomena strange and bizarre,

searching, wondering, hoping

to find their own place in the stars.

Why are they here, on this blue orb,

moving through dark, lonely space?

If something is out there to contact

our task is to find any trace.

Moved along on rails of steel

arranged in the shape of a wye,

repaired as needed, sent back out,

forever we gaze at the sky.