I could waste my time
thinking it’s all mine,
writing my own rhymes,
thinking they’re so fine,
thinking I’m so cool
making my own rules
teaching my own school
of thought, like I’m not
just using the same words
everyone has heard
plowing the same dirt,
feeding the same birds,
surprised that nothing grows.
Don’t I know
half of this is just for show?
How does the story go?
Oh, yeah: everyone dies,
maybe loved ones cries,
we dry off our own eyes
because it’s not really a surprise.
At least we died wise
or at least we tried
but what’s left of our lives?
A song of sacrifice
is the one (the one!) we won’t forget,
the one that lasting life begets,
and so I’m going to cover it,
yes, that’s the song I’ll be.
Cover it true, cover it new,
the best cover I can do,
and still I’ll need You,
your sacrifice to cover me.
But That’s Not What I Said
Why are you getting all defensive
You think that I’m on the offensive.
But that’s not what I said.
You think that I am blaming you
that all our weekend plans fell through.
But that’s not what I said.
You think that I don’t like to wait
and that I think you’re kinda late.
But that’s not what I said.
You ‘pologize for what you wear,
assume that I don’t like your hair,
but that’s not what I said.
There you go, do it by yourself,
you think that I don’t want to help.
But that’s not what I said.
And when I turn and walk away
you think I’m having a bad day.
But that’s not what I said.
You think it’s not my favorite date
when I don’t touch what’s on my plate.
But that’s not what I said.
You say “Well here is the receipt,”
as if the gift is not that neat.
But that’s not what I said.
It seems like you’re always assuming.
You act like some big news is looming.
But that’s not what I said.
Sometimes you look and sigh at me
like I won’t ever let you be.
But that’s not what I said.
You know that’s not what I said,
and if my mind could be read,
oh you’d know, you know.
But that’s not what I said.
Give Us Strength
To stay connected without being infected,
to stop being busy without getting bored,
to tell the truth and not forget mercy,
oh give us strength, dear Lord.
One Month To Go
One month to go, and it won’t go slow.
I have lots of poems to write.
More than a month’s worth, that I know.
Plus, they can’t be trite.
Eleven months of ups and downs,
and I’m still writing here.
I might not have written a poem a day,
but I’ll have three-sixty-five in a year.
Wasted
A husband buys his wife a gift,
something that she doesn’t need,
something kind of frivolous.
The wife puts it in a good place
so when she needs it, it’ll be safe.
So now it’s lost. What a waste.
And who’s the one who wasted?
My Sign
Hung on my neck, like a noose but loose,
is a sign that reads “I have no excuse.
Yet my life is still messy and my brain feels like toast.
It’s my own imperfection that drags me down most.”
(In response to this great article.)
If No One Ever Reads This Poem
If no one ever reads this poem,
at least it’s not on paper,
so it will cause no trees to fall in the forest.
But even so,
as I write,
there is a tree falling.
We just don’t hear it.