Why I Must Write
Life is simply poetry,
And I must write it down.
Without the rhyme and beat of words,
I am a hopeless clown.
But if I can but set the theme,
And manipulate the sound,
The music of the world is mine,
And Meaning is unbound.
Here is a simple truth about why I write. I believe I have the power to define myself, a power that not even God can take away. I hope to leave words and stories and poems and drawings behind to speak to others, especially my children, after I am dead and gone. That is a writer’s immortality. And you should probably know that as a retired school teacher, I have over 2,500 children. But even if none of them ever reads a word of it, or looks at one of my Paffooney pictures, I will have made poetry enough to be me. And that is really all a writer does.
Here are a couple of poems of mine;
Broken People Parts (a goofy poem from messed-up Mike)
Sometimes people break,
And then, they fall apart,
And it takes a jigsaw master,
To Puzzle back their heart.
And if a foot falls off,
Quite busted on Monday’s hump
They may be legless, headless, limp
And lying in a lump.
But no face is ever busted
To a point of no repair,
And lips are pasted back in place
With a smile that wasn’t there.
When Comes the Dawn?
We never seem to see it coming,
When the dark times are here,
Depression, black… is out of whack,
And everything looks drear…
And then a glimmer… maybe hope?
When will the sun appear?
But gray men in their dread gray suits,
Make the paperwork loom near…
And we must fill out in triplicate,
The forms you sign right here.
This dawn you want is pink and blue?
The proper form, my dear…
Sign it, scribe it, write in ink,
And make no mistake appear
And then you write and write and write…
To make the dawn shine clear.
Fog in the City (A Melancholy Poem)
It doesn’t come in on cat feet.
That’s probably Chicago you’re thinking of.
It comes in on the sound of screeching tires…
and ambulance sirens…
because of all the idiot drivers…
in their silver-gray WASP rockets…
that don’t know how to slow down…
or turn on their low beams…
for safety in the big, cold city of Dallas…
where the air is yellow…
except in the fog…
and rush, rush, rush…
business never waits…
for a foggy day.
Toy Tyger (a silly nod to William Blake)
Tyger! Tyger! Burning bright!
I see thee holy in the night,
This for that, and that for this,
Shoot the gun,
And never miss!
A sillier poem there will never be,
And Tyger! Tyger! this poem’s for thee.
So, ultimately, here is my full understanding of poetry; Poems are made by fools like (Joyce Kilmer), but only God (with help from Mickey) can make a ME!