enjoy my work. i post what i write, what i see, and what it means to me. good or bad, comment away.


short collection two

i. Ocelot

What a lovely spot, Ocelot.
As long as you do what you ought,
You’ll surely never be caught.
But don’t get caught up in haught, Ocelot.

Perhaps I’ll name you Scott, Ocelot.
Misbegot? Surely not.
Your battle well fought, though
Unfortunately for naught, because
Your pelt is what I’ve sought, Ocelot.

This isn’t what I thought, Ocelot.
This feeling what I got
Is regret, from which was wrought
This poem that I jot, Ocelot.

Apricot, kumquat, hot snot dot.
I no longer what to rhyme with you, Ocelot.

ii. History

Leave your mark.
Deep or shallow, leave it nonetheless.
And be sure to do it intentionally.
Your intention doesn’t determine its actuality
So why not make it intentional?

You will be remembered.
Epic or tragedy?
Giver or taker? Reaper or maker?
Change will occur, so ensure it is positive.
Leave no stone unturned, no path untraveled.
Use less; love more; touch many.

They say history is determined by the winners
Defy convention; make history by losing

iii. Until Death Comes

Until death comes
Until my final breath comes
I’ll breathe deep from wells sprung
From mouth
Swallow doubt and reach out to
South, West, North, East; all around
At the very least I’ll speak
My mind in time with verse and rhyme
And listen in kind
On this page mine is yours, yours is mine
Until death comes

iv. The Last Drink

A solitary solitaire adorns her wizened finger of promises
As she sits at the window table
Two glasses sit beside her; one empty, one full
Martini dirty with forgotten hopes
A third across the table too,
To remain there as every time before.
The chandelier reflects from her
Moistened eye
As it does the solitary solitaire
In solitude.
Again he won’t come.
Again she forgets.
Again she’ll return.
A weekly ritual cemented in
Her forgetfulness
Of loss (though not of love)
Each night the last night
Each drink the last drink
Each the last.
Each the last.

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