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Old Flood

I used to write poems,
Back when I was twenty, maybe twenty-five or so.
Sorting it all out, writing it down.
What am I really trying to say? I would say.
Just say that.

Then I grew tired of all the sorting.
The backing up, reworking.
Was I writing the poem or it writing me?
These depressing little bastard poems, like my own children,
I tended to them.

But the lines separated me.
And no one cared about all that anyway.
I just wanted to cannonball
Off the dock,
Splashing my friends.
Why can’t I write about that?

But the wheels never spun for that.
No rushing home to write down a line for that.
And now it’s been years
Since I felt that old flood.
For not a folder of poems, found deep in a hard drive.
My old mind, sitting there naked, for anyone to see.

Was I really like that back then?
It seems so.
Life now, just a checklist of tasks
Where have I been?
I never even did that splash off the dock,
After all that fuss.

Style / type: 
Free verse
Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Last few words: 
Well, I just felt like writing something again - real simple and the poem explains. Not sure if I will work on this further. Sorry to clog up the feed.
Editing stage: 


I wrote like a a banshee too HS/college/grad school all poetry, but needed a job and spent 45 years in the screen print business. after a while didn't write retired, now i'm the old banshee. Takes a few months. Enjoy the flood. Your life experience was such that you've always been a poet, you have interpreted the life you led though poetry, and you always was able to read poetry. Fuck it, let out the flood gates. But do not be surprised how much your poetry will be different, and how mature.
Like this very poem you have offered. How can i change a word; I wrote it too. (That's the biggest compliment I know how to give)
and yes, you really were like that back then.
After all these years I finally bought and finished the collected Oliver. There is some Oliver in this poem, as in so many of so many of our poems, by assimilation.
Right now I'm finishing the collected Cummings, moving on to Marianne Moore. A lot of catching up to do.
Welcome to the team!

I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing
than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance
ee cummings

Thank you so much for the warm welcome! I appreciate your analysis, especially the part about me "always being a poet". I hadn't really thought about it, but I guess I do kind of see the world and live my life that way. With a poets eye for whats really going on, seeing poems everywhere. How did you know? lol. Looking forward to reading all your work (I've already started and I love your style!). Cheers!

author comment


I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing
than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance
ee cummings

Thanks remark for the nice comments and advice. Great to meet you!

author comment

'these depressing little bastard poems..'
i write and draw on napkins..the muses
the strange little jaunts...i never knew
till later that people loved them
Hung out with busker people downtown
the carnival and hollywood is in town
I can sing...just cant play an instrument
they scrounge up coin for refreshments
working the crowd..
most been working since sixteen
like my old lady i hardly include here
(but i love her..i think its sound for every
writer to have someone..anyone..)
like your writing...its like the people i know
an honesty in its telling..
we are still the same people now
as then before and after..
the writing tends and is tended

thank U

Mr W

thanks for the reply Esker. You seem like a very interesting guy! A poet even in ordinary conversation I see. I like that!
This is, indeed, all about honesty, I think. That is the whole point for me. Not to impress with skill, but to express honestly and hopefully I'll learn skill so I can be better at that.

author comment

What is poetry
but effulgence of emotion ...from deep core of one's heart
Yes it is empathy coated with sympathy
that poets expose their inner sensibility
and end up either by being kicked
upwards or stamped by the foot of some one
who thinks all poets one owns

Shakespeare composed out of his sheer imagery
no one ever taught him
but 450 years
since he went to the unknown side
poets still in class rooms him describe
oh what a scribe
do imbibe .

Mid Summer's Night
Lady Macbeth
have you similar ones ever tried

So many poets have come and gone
out of my works a few gems have been born
but who has the gumption to say
I am no poet of today

Yes I may not so be
but future poetry alone exudes out of me
tomorrow when my form is naught
all will ask NOT
but shyly will say
who was Loved anyway
okay if not this day
one day
some day
but not yet far away

So poets love your work I say
some guys love darkness
girls love black

you love white horses
I beauties black

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