Back when a sophomore in university I got it into my head that I was a poet, though not by any dint of skill, practice or study–no, I determined that poetry came naturally. You know, like my brain possessed some kind of muse that produced works of poetry in fealty with the brilliance within. Before gaining a better grasp of reality during my junior year, I did manage to write a fair amount of drivel that I called poetry, and–surprise!–even managed to get two pieces published.
The first piece below represents my first-ever “published” writing and was published in East Carolina University’s literary magazine, “The Rebel.” The second piece was published shortly thereafter in a compilation called “The Anthology of a Dream,” however, I came to believe that this was a racket designed to get aspiring poets to pony up big bucks for a copy of their brilliance in leather-bound print (and no, I did not succumb). The last piece I’m adding because it represents a distinct memory from my youth.
A Vampire’s Lament
I need
So I feed
But I bleed
So I feed,
Again….
Camp Life
The deathly cold
Turnip soup
An endless Steppe,
Nothingness
Dogs guard the gates
Of sickly thin,
Crusty bread
The broken wills,
Spiritless
Dogs guard the gates
The sharpened walls,
Razor wire
A half-dead corpse,
Lassitude
Dogs feast on flesh
Homecoming
Closed casket at a Catholic wake
Disfigured sign of horrible death
Though quick as his ’68 Firebird–
“Grim Reaper” Stenciled on its sides.
She was black, like the rubber in her wake
Baddest ride in town, save the other woman.
A blonde delicate beauty–”Homecoming Queen.”
He took them both to the senior prom.
The battered wreck, rusting in the junkyard
Testament of mortality, shattered lives.
“I don’t love you anymore,” she cried
Drunk and brokenhearted, he fled
and at 100 mph met the gnarled tree.