Words in my pocket are torn from my soul,
Yet seem to spring freely from fertile mind.
They’re not dark shadows, my poet’s parole,
But simply the best my old brain can find.
I seek not to tinker with complex forms,
Nor do I offer mere prattle or boast;
I gather oblique views of daily norms,
To serve with life’s wine and offer a toast.
I toast to the images words can craft,
To stories in amber of complex rhyme,
That live when a reader has cried or laughed:
A legacy beyond distance or time.
My peculiar poems have just one goal:
To lighten a spirit or soothe a soul.
In initial form, most of my poems are Shakespearean (aka, English) sonnets. This alone puts me outside today’s norm, which fortunately for me -- is exactly where I live. Occasionally, I use an archaic form or unusual word, but only to gain a definite shade of meaning. Age and heavy doses of chemotherapy have robbed me of easy access to most of these words and forms. Yet, if you peer into the dark corner of your bookshelf, where your dictionary or thesaurus resides, you might catch a glimpse of me -- smiling back at you.