i am no poet...

Ask Earl might return next week.



I realized that I had never posted any poetry. So, in lieu of the advice column, I though I might post a couple. While searching for a file on my increasingly jam packed hard drive, I rediscovered these elegies.

The first is a Petrarchan sonnet inspired by a professor that had way too much to say about my writing. She didn't care for my voice, topics, propensity for violence, etc. As a protest, I wrote the poem.

The second is pretty self-explanatory in free-verse.

Here Lies Creativity
September 9th, 2007 to September 16th, 2007

Born unto me, my Dear, in autumn o’seven,
Fluky was I to receive Arianrhod’s gift,
And so it was Thee I would endeavor to lift,
Alas too high, down You came crashing from heaven.
No heartening or kind compassion could leaven,
The pain of parent from nurtured Child’s death so swift,
Nor could cold pragmatic revision spare the rift,
Between proud father and literary maven.
Death at the stroke of a pen, but at whose warrant?
Thyne beauty is of privileged grasp, not for all,
From me ‘lone You depart, as from me were You born,
And while to she Your rhyth’m and style were abhorrent,
‘Twas Your images, Your theme, I loved most of all,
Tis for these, Your heart, Your soul most deeply I mourn.

The Journey

My sister’s father lay supine,
In his deathbed, surrounded by family.
Once sharp and witty, and full,
Of seemingly endless life.
Today, his breathing is shallow.
He is unanimated, gray.
His eyes are closed and tears run,
From the corners to the pillow.
He is experiencing electrolytic shock,
And it startles us.
His pulse is dropping, and respirations,
Becoming less frequent.
My mother is removing the oxygen mask,
From his nose and mouth.
She is singing “Amazing Grace” to help him,
Make the journey.