At Last…Goodbye!

                                       Painting by Alan Hurley

Each word, a thousand times spoken
Each promise, another vow broken
like snowflakes melting as they hit the ground
your words fall coldly without a sound

Each kiss, from cold lips pressed
Each touch, just an icy caress
You hold me so tightly I can no longer breath
Your embrace insincere – I no longer believe

Each gesture, an empty illusion
Each thought, just a delusion
The love I once felt has turned to regret
And the best I can do is hope to forget

Each day, a waste of my giving
Each night, exhausted from living
With someone who hasn’t the vision to see me
I’ve opened my eyes, I just wish to be free

The Writer’s Struggle

A writer never sleeps at night:
his dreams are all revisions –
when dark descends he’s lost within 
a hopeless indecision.

In love or rage the empty page 
remains a voiceless vision –
The words won’t come until he’s sprung 
from inspiration’s prison!

Frustrated sage, the pen is raised…
but nothing is forthcoming;
the ink he spills refuses still 
to transcend his shortcomings.

A prayer is tossed, but still he’s lost 
and soon the sun will rise –
He tries again, then drops his pen,
and finally shuts his eyes!

In full stagnation, his imagination 
has given up the quest –
He soon resigns to fate’s design
and lays down for a rest.

In spent repose, with both eyes closed
the taunting muse descends,
And whispers clear within his ear
“Get up! Begin again!”

And so it goes, the author knows:
it never gets much lighter!
The battle waged to fill a page 
consumes most every writer.

Writer’s Block

Half smoked cigarettes fill the vapid air,
the poet hunches over in total disrepair.
His dalliance with the muse is such a sad affair,
When words won’t come, he slouches in despair.
The night mist lingers though he doesn’t’ really care,
Surrounded by empty bottles, his vision is impaired.
The empty page taunts him, “Fill me if you dare!”
He reaches even deeper, but there’s really nothing there.
Another evening of this is more than he can bear
In absolute surrender, his pen flies through the air.

Poet’s Lament


I’ve washed my life in an endless swash of
Smoke and cheap bought bourbon
I bathed my dreams in kerosene,
Set aflame in streets most urban.
My poets hand most still it stands
No words to ink most certain
My song is sung, my fall begun
Down falls the final curtain.
I wrestled with a weighty scythe
Laid low my expectations
And all for what? My final cut
Reveals no inspiration.
And yet I write, despite the fight
My hope not yet diminished
That still somehow, and even now
My legacy’s unfinished.