Note to Self

Note to Self

Thirty was no big deal.

The same with forty.

Even fifty was a breeze.
If only the poems
would come that easily.

But fifty-two?
That’s when it hit me.
Where did half a century go?

Next year, sixty-two.

Counting down, now.

Yes, the temptation to write about “thirty”  was too much, and I succumbed.

I’ve made up for it by writing #31 for NaPoWriMo: Always There


30 poems in 30 days_30

Samuel F. B. Damned

Samuel F B Damned

No white noise…

not the rhythmic tick
of precision clockwork,
nor the hum of the fridge,
not even the howling wind
outside my window

…is sufficient distraction.

That hissing,
shrill whine
forever roaring in my ear
is punctuated, today,
by random, staticky clicks.

My mind wanders
inner aural caverns,
seeking a tympanic override
for this cryptic Morse code,
to restore the compromise
of those white howls,
hums and ticks.