Each morning I step outside and sit down in one of the wicker chairs we have outside of our house, armed with coffee and at least one cigarette. Sitting there waiting for me are chairs, a footrest, an ashtray and two large lighters. I start almost every day in this way. It’s an important ritual, based almost solely in addiction, to which I adhere strictly. It helps me get my head right for the day, a task which takes more effort than one might immediately consider. Especially when I’ve had nightmares about being chased naked by a polar bear.
These poems aren’t great, they’re just where I’m at right now. Experimenting with what I used to be able to do with great ease and without a second thought.
Purple flowers rise Green backdrop of unmowed grass Dying tree behind
Two chairs in the sun I sit upon one Birds chirp in the trees Sets my soul at ease
Haiku poetry Iamb Iamb Anapest Finish with a thought
How can I keep on writing While drowning in blue ink? Can’t keep my head above it Long enough to take a drink. Shaking hands and cursive Do not a great match make I’m giving most of what I have What more will you take? As we turn closer toward the sun As shadows shorten and slide I wonder if my talent’s back Or if I’ll ever find A place where I can quietly Write and read and write Should I do it in the morning sun, Or wait until the night?