In honor of National Poetry Month in the US, here is one from my T. S. Eliot phase. This phase did not last long, which was good for me, and good for poetry. 

I loved you as my destiny,
hoping to meet infinity
in giving self to self.
Now I am a book upon the shelf.

Human potentiality,
passes into tragedy,
the rending realization
of inhuman limitation:

All things must pass,
slipping through the broken glass,
meeting in conception, hurled,
the moment's destruction of the world.

Man corrupts alone, futilely
enduring, enclosed hopeless virility.

Photo courtesy of marcelabr on Pixabay.com

(Rosy liked this on RR so I thought it

might be an appropriate first blog.)

You think you know?

You don't know.

If I say, I'm impaled here,

Hanging from this spear

They shoved through me

And into this tree,

Would you say,

Yeah, I'm like that too?

If I say all of my dreams

Have been nightmares for

As long as I remember --

Since I was three,

Or maybe two,

I guess you'd say,

Yeah, that's me,

I'm just like you.

I say, Everything reminds me

Of something,

Reminds me of the pain.

Everything --

Ten years ago,

Forty years ago,

Sixty years ago.

It never stops.

Yeah, I'm like that,

You say.

Well, here we are.

Ten stories up.

Maybe I'll jump.

I think I'll jump.

Well...?

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