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Monday, April 13, 2015

Squealing On Myself

When I am asked about
the source of my writing,
I usually pretend
not to know.
Sometimes that’s the truth.
More often, it is not,
at least with the poems
that I think are more
than just okay.
I don’t live in the past,
have no use for regrets,
and made peace with
my imperfections
a long time ago.
I’ll own up to the fact
that, at fifty, it seemed over,
I’m no longer of interest,
end of story, all she wrote.
That’s the picture I drew,
how it looked then,
no chance to start life anew.
But age flattens a man,
small tasks bringing big pleasure,
big thoughts a small treasure.
Two decades later, and
sometimes I can’t believe
how much belief I have.
So, my writing sources:
for the best of it,
I go way back,
not wishing to return,
not dreaming of the good old days,
but honoring them,
cherishing the memories,
even the ones about
the dead trees on Elm Avenue,
or the ones about my mother,
who died so abruptly
in football season, 1958.
Mostly I write to find out
what I’m thinking,
to check my mood,
to always to tell the truth,
which does indeed set one free,
but not until it sometimes

pisses you off.

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