My Old FriendMy Old FriendMore Like This
Is an old-fashioned sort.
Ever polite, he tips his hat,
nods and holds the door to pass,
smiling as I go.
My Old Friend knows me best.
Always he listens and murmurs,
Learning my foes and my fears
To comfort me with silent thought
And peaceful eyes.
My Old Friend loves surprises.
He's very thoughtful, and often
Throws surprise birthday parties
For the ones he misses most.
Never has he thrown one for me.
My Old Friend always passes by
Yet never stops to say hello.
I often wonder if he's forgotten me;
Suddenly he appears again,
Smiling politely from a headline
or a crowded street.
My Old Friend will be at my door
Before I am prepared for him.
He'll straighten his tie and offer his hand
As I've imagined
Many times before.
In his eyes float my mirrors,
Pale around the mouth.
And when he reads my fears in my heart
On aging parchment young
He'll weep to see that like the rest
What I fear most of all is him.
May I Write a Thousand Crappy PoemsPicking up this pen and paperMore Like This
in pensive thought prepare to write
words and feelings flowing freely
as winding rivers reflecting starlight.
But here at my desk no words come,
no lightning inspiration strike,
so I sit like a hunch-backed leeching fool
begging paper to relieve my plight.
So may I write a thousand crappy poems
In desperate hopes that one just might
be good enough to fill my belly
or make my quaking mind alright.