100 DAYS

100 Days ago I made a decision to throw caution to the wind

A choice I hoped in the long run would not leave me chagrined.


I thought I would write a daily rhyme, (OK nothing crazy about that yet!)

But in my infinite wisdom I thought I’d post them on the net.


Why I did this is a mystery I still have yet to solve.

When I think back I have to wonder if alcohol was involved?


Whatever! I thought Facebook was the perfect place to let these rhymes run free

After all, everyone on Facebook I have friended...or they have friended me.


It was the perfect place I assumed among people I have known

To try something this scary and leave my comfort zone.


What better place to post the great pieces of literature my mind begat

Than a place that offers recipes, funny e-cards and videos of crazy cats?


Ever since I can remember if there was a special time

My family and friends knew they’d be receiving a copy of my rhyme.


They usually seemed delighted, like my poem gave them a lift.

Little did they know, till now, it was much cheaper than a gift.


They said I should write for other people, they said it’d be a snap.

I’m sure they thought they shouldn’t be the only ones who get to read this crap!


So buoyed by their urging and my own naivete

I decided it might be fun to write a poem a day.


It wasn’t an easy decision to make...to write this daily rhyme

But I somehow found the courage to hit POST the very first time.


It’s now been 100 days and these daily rhymes have not abated

I’m sure my family and friends didn’t expect the monster they created!


I imagine you might like one poem while another you think is a flop

It matters not because, since I started, there’s no way that I can stop.


It has now become an obsession...I think your help I should enlist...

Is there a doctor out there who specializes...perhaps a poetry therapist?


On second thought don’t feel bad for me for everyday I feel blessed

That my poems have been around the world and met with some success.


In truth I have one follower in Germany which really has no glamour

Because the only reason she reads my poems is to correct me on my grammar.


Be that as it may...100 poems, it’s a number that does amaze.

And I’m sure you can’t wait to read what’s coming in the next 100 days.


Will they be happy, thoughtful, heart wrenching, or perhaps a little fun

You be the judge for the poem you’re reading is now one hundred and one.




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Nymph's Song

Years ago I heard a song;

it was a burst of fresh spring water,

thoughtless as thoughts exhausted on a day's end,

somber as delta sleep

with dreams of love like lovers

can never be

in the mind's eye,

because with all its intellect

it's song is little more

than a thousand haunted memories

and a reasonable fear

that what I wished I could keep forever

is dissolving like an exhale into the breeze.

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For the Sake of Creating

Anecdotes and testaments,

half-remembered precedents;

they set the stage so thusly for

a script that's read in silence.

Eyes may widen as it's skimmed -

shorn, revised and marred by whim -

but as your panic settles in,

it's handed back and purchased.

An audition for your draft.

Your chest tightens as you laugh.

You think aloud, "It's not so bad.

At least it wasn't worthless."

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scripted walks through time




...as the feelings expressed on paper

swirl through the room

like leaves from a changing tree in the fall of the year,

the pages of life are turned to reveal the layers

of what once had been covered.

...the leaves fall to the ground,

the cat curls safely inside a feathered pillow,

...the empty cup,

steaming from it's brim hours earlier,

is placed in the sink,

and peaceful slumber

ends another season of life.


Author's Notes/Comments: 

Inspired by poetic eyes "singing typewriter".

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A Poet's Birth

Goodbye festers like root rot in the gums.
Spreading the heart breaking venom.
Waiting for the final smile.  The final breath.
Goodbye festers like an acid laced thorn.
Burrowing itself deeper into the spirit's flesh.
There is a man dying giving birth to legends.
Writ in the blood of fallen stars.

Shakespear's quill pierced the voice box.
King's nightmares are the marching bad.
Bukowski is the comedy relief.

In the piss fur coffin lies not Stoker's terror right.

What lies within the coffin, is a living poet.
High on dreams, drunk off hope.
Blind by cherish, deaf by the Muse.
Here is the birth of a poet festering in goodbye.

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I Can't Write Happy


Dark and depressing,

that's all I write.

It could be about death

or about a fight.


Suicide, murder,

it's all the same.

And because of this fact,

I'm kind of in shame.


For that's all I write about

don't you see?

I can't write "happy"

it just can't be.


I tried to write "happy",

never came out good.

It came out dark and depressing,

like I knew it would.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Hello everyone, sorry I missed yesterday's upload. Remember how I said something about how sickness can't keep me from posting? Well, it did. But to make up for it, I'm posting 2 today, this one being the first. Criticism is welcome and appreciated.

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Dep[w]r[iting]ession H[elps]urts

I am sitting and reading a poetry book,

Becoming inspired by Emily Dickinson’s words.


The classrooms empty as I swiftly leave,

Wanting to go home to begin my own words.


Thoughts are pouring through my mind

As I hurriedly write my pain through mere words.


Death, pain, heartache, suffering, and love

Became the thoughts now on paper as words.


I am an amateur, I know, but depression hurts

And I helped myself by putting thoughts to words.



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the Saga of A writer- The sequel

Yesterday I waxed poetic about my book’s fame and how I sought it

Only to be humbled when just a handful of people bought it.


I realized that in the end even though that dream was shattered

My life contained too many other dreams and gifts that really mattered.


Well, yesterday, as if on cue, to the mailbox I trekked

There amongst the mail was my quarterly royalty check.


I stopped for a moment before opening it, as I am wont to do.

For inside could be a big fat check and a movie deal too.


(Hey, isn’t it a good thing for a little fantasy to come calling

Before reality sets in and sends our destiny befalling?)


Slowly I opened the envelope and extracted it’s contents

No movie deal, just a check for eighteen dollars and three cents.


It’s a blessing I am happy with my life as it appears

Because at this rate I wont be a millionaire for 31,000 years.


So I smiled at my good fortune and shared with Deborah my delight

Hey, I said waving the check over my head, my treat at McDonald’s tonight!






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Saga of a Writer

In 2001 I wrote a book about teaching and I was pretty sure

My book would be hailed as a work of art, a great piece of literature.


At that time I was ecstatic. “I’m a writer!” I declared

I knew I wrote a bestseller...and I’d soon be a millionaire.


So I followed my progress on Amazon awaiting my ultimate fate.

But it seems my bestseller never got past number 900,998.


I never got discouraged, never whimpered, never whined

At least I was ahead of the person who wrote number 900,999.


It seems my first predictions in hindsight were to bold

And I would have to put my dreams of wealth and fame on hold.


In my defense I thought my book great insights would reveal

And naively thought a book about my life would have a broad appeal.


But fame can be a fleeting thing and in the end, in truth, who needs it!

Besides it’s not enough to write a book...but people have to read it.


Yet when I think about my life, there’s no reason for dismay

For I have many reasons to count my blessings every day.


I have a family whom I adore, and they seem to like me too

No matter what the world throws at us, we’ll help each other through.


I have friends, I have my health and life seems to be following some plan

You see, I may not be a famous writer, but I am a lucky man.


Sometimes I am overwhelmed at the riches that have come my way

It seems the most important book we write is the one we pen each day.






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