poetry written is for poet first
only person who must be pleased

stretching words thin
tantalizing them to mean
what they mean
beyond what they mean

word play --
not a contact sport
but for firing neurons
skipping electro-chemical light
in darkness of skulls

critics pick and pull
poet's words
stack opinion upon opinion
losing meaning
perhaps only poet knows

poet just keeps writing
for him or herself --

most ruthless of critics.

On a top floor balcony I sit
in our great east coast city
as the night fades into day
among concrete business monoliths

The last few visible stars fade
into skies turning slowly black to gray
all silent save a lone street cleaner
slowly chugging down empty streets

Sun still drowned by tattered ocean
although under lighting horse tail cirrus clouds
with a soft saffron glow
alongside cris-crossed contrails

Deafening waves of blood
Pounding in my ears
The quiet noise
Sudden darkness fills my eyes
Rising on the flux of my panic
It was the clatter of my clutter
Flowing in rushing rivulets
Down the banks of my life’s stream
Washed to the brink
Of eternity’s open maw
The crash cart enters
Harshly inducing
My reentry into the now
Briefly dead
But now reborn
Giving me two birth dates

* Due to a stomach ulcer, an artery burst. I died and was revived. This is my first poem on this experience. Cat.

The need for your acceptance
will usually keep me quiet,
but not today.

I feel weak, but strong,
alone and surrounded.
I feel left out, expected,
dearly loved and neglected.

But if someone,
anyone, can hear me ...

I want to be seen and forgiven,
in control,
yet out of my mind.

Lost, found,
locked in
and locked out.

I want to be anonymous,
but who the famous talk about.

I want to be remembered and forgotten,
and one day, one glorious day,
accepted.