Poets log
ten o’clock on a windy Sunday night
September gnawing on my bones like time
as leafs in memories from childhood forests
in bed next to the baby
a wordless writer to be
an ever ongoing process of creativity
never resulting in a finished work
a pilgrim and a kafkalike shadow
a rancher without cattle and a fatherless new father
in my negligence of mankind I have found myself outside their fellowship
I live in parallel black and gray fantasies
I am Bergman with a foggy lens
twenty hours overtime per week is a weary
the sun is on my hard hat for a decade a day
my soul cannot find a pasture
a Warsaw publisher rails on modern poetry
and so puts a couple of rounds in the neck of my eagerness to write
as the last hawk’s unwillingness to screetch
and so proceeds my days and years
the Florida oak trees wave my hope goodbye in the stormy sky
while I write these first runes from my camp
as a thirty year old man
and pray for my children
and those that went before
NordicWords 