Paeans - and Aches

over the years

Sunday, August 29, 2004


Having, reluctantly, concluded
that i am now too old—
we will draw the veil
over questions of ability, please—
to become

an engine driver,
Olympic champion
or matinee idol,


knowing one cannot learn to

carry a tune,
visit new planets,
or be dimpled,


having ticked off:

snowball fight,
river running,
being published,
being on stage,
and dancing,

i look now
to my remaining ambitions.

To climb a mountain,
to swim once in every sea
to start a religion,
to be tough enough
to intimidate my daughters’ admirers,
to write words that you wished you had.

That should keep me busy.

Sunday, August 08, 2004


i have no message for you
if i did, i’d send you mail.
No fresh insights, no causes,
no attempts to change your mind.
i have no influences,
i come from no school,
i’m untutored in style and history,
and know nothing of conventions.
i have not workshopped,
nor been peer-reviewed.
i do not push the boundaries of verse.
Real Poets have nothing to learn from me.

Because i only write of love, of longing,
of losing, of getting older,
of the oh-so-ordinary things i see around me.
i write for myself, it’s true.
But you, you may find some solace here,
at the very least you’ll find
that you’re not alone,
at most, words
for a thought you hadn’t spoken.
More i cannot give.
May it be enough.