Poetry
When It Comes Into Focus
A poem that plods on, undeterred
I wish I could say
My failures were legendary
But they don’t measure up
To such boasts
I am schlemiel and schlimazel
In turns
Unremarkable
And bright
I put down my words
For what else should I do with them?
And truly
Who am I to judge?
___
By Doodleslice 2024–06–05
I think my problem, one of them anyway, is a default optimism — a baseline belief that I can always tuck one more thing into the junk drawer. Because, you see, I also believe that all these little oddments (be they my collections or creations) have a future. A narrow destiny, perhaps far-off, but a day, a moment, appointed by the fates, to be useful, to shine, to set a small glow in the world.
I am intelligent enough to know the folly of this.
But don’t let ’em fool you. This art, this poetry, this human game of what we do before we die, isn’t all about intelligence. You can argue the percentage — how much this, how much that, but in the end you have to fiddle with your own recipe, or be content with it.
I think I’m still fiddling.
I’m certainly still stowing, stashing, and scribbling.
Perhaps, a little more amenable to the trash can with each passing year, but not ready, by any stretch of the imagination, for empty drawers.
