The Blank Page

The Blank Page

Here it sits, in all potential glory
Repository for a most engaging story
Or, perhaps, a long and lustrous poem
The pulped and bleached and lined imaginations loam
And yet it proves a most defensive wall
Upon this empty face most climbers fall
The need is now to find a place of purchase
And now forget how getting started hurts us

Holding on to daylight

As darkness falls, travelers are homing
Turning on their lights to keep the day into gloming
Outside, spirits seek but they only end by roaming
When night comes on they’ll all go back to merely loaming.

Birthday

This is the last poem of my twenties
Sweat-stained and full, those years
Of triumph and little moments
Lost even as they happened
Are packed up in a dirty cardboard box
And left in a closet to be occasionally discovered
When looking for something else
But never, no never, thrown away.

Tomorrow starts fresh, stepping into
A new dawn with a limp and a scar
Or two, to make it real.
There steps a man, I think, at last.