There once was a man from Nantucket . . .

No one reads poetry anymore (dude sitting in the Barnes & Nobel cafe with your $5 latte, peeking over the edge of the book of poems you don’t fully comprehend to see who is gazing in awe at your intellectual superiority – I’m not talking to you).  There are people who are voracious readers who couldn’t tell you the last time they read a poem that wasn’t engraved on a greeting card.  I’m not judging.  Hell, I don’t read that much poetry, either.  I just think it’s a shame and I wonder what was the cause. 

One reason may be that some poetry can’t be completely understood just reading it once.  Some poems have to be mulled over and digested to fully appreciate.  Who has that kind of time?  People usually read for an escape from reality, not as a reminder of what high school English homework was like.  There are poets out there that do write instantly enjoyable poems that even prose-only readers can appreciate.  One that comes to mind (and that most have heard of) is Shel Silverstein.  Yes, they are technically children’s poems, but they are intelligently written and can appeal to an adult sense of humor as well.  I know that there are more, and I would like to find them.  

And, so you can say you read a poem today, here’s one from me: 

The End of the Dog

I am a flea
who’s dog has died,
left without a
home or hide.
 

My family and I
need a new habitation.
Closing upon us is
the threat of extinction.
 

In the few moments
on the dog remaining,
I can’t help but
spend time remembering . . .
 

Evacuation drills
for the “Big Dip,”
all the scenic views
from his tail’s tip.
 

My favorite spots
to sit and chew,
mom’s secret recipe
for Dog’s Hair Stew.

Now it is time
to pack up and go,
exits are to the rear
and down by the nose.
 

As we leave, I
look back one last time,
but fresh meat awaits
leave the dead dog behind.
 

Search we must for
a new host to bite.
No one said it was easy
being a parasite.

 

Portrait of the Artist as a Raving Looney

In my search for something to write about, I thought I’d post a poem I wrote about trying to find something to write about. 
The style of the poem is an etheree which consists of 10 lines with 1 through 10 syllables. 

The
blinking
cursor is
the enemy
revealing my lack
of inspiration on
a white field of nothingness.
It waits impatiently for me
to unleash my ineptitude in
all its twelve-point Times New Roman glory.

But I will not be mocked by a black bar!
I have overcome worthier foe.
Hastily approaching deadlines
and lack of appropriate
volumes of reference
have ne’er been able
to stanch the flow
of keystrokes,
swift and
sure. 

Oh,
who am
I kidding?                    
My muse flew the
coop a while ago.   
She was likely weary
of my hackneyed prose and the
dry ruminations I professed
to be verse.  In full disclosure, the
thesaurus did the work most of the time. 

I must throw off the bonds of self-doubt and
thrust headlong into the task at hand. 
Who needs a stinkin’ muse when they
have pure talent on their side!
What is inspiration
if not suddenly
realizing
genius and
using
it?

I’m
really
in trouble. 
If I have to
rely on latent
genius to finish this
project then I might as well
drink myself into a coma. 
There’s nothing like succumbing to your
demons to put things into perspective. 

But maybe that’s the answer after all.
Hasn’t history proven that the
most exquisite of works have been
penned under the influence?
Shouldn’t I style myself
after the masters?
I’ll just have to
work on not
dying
young.