Final Angry Little Poem on this topic: Unrealistic Expectations

Unrealistic Expectations

A closing story
Swift and gentle
Consistent with
Her view of life

Moving on
No other option
Expecting time to
Dull pain’s knife

osv 10/2014


Lulu gently died at home on October 19. Moving on way too soon. Long may she run.

(Lulu osv photo courtesy of fv.)

Angry Little Poem: Diminishing Returns

Diminishing Returns

She fades on
The easy times close
Only hard days now remain

Dark choice growing near
How many to allow
Measured time versus pain


Embracing what there is
We patiently
Wait for the sign

osv 10/14

Another angry little poem: An Observation

The tone of the next few poems will be a bit dark. Perhaps even maudlin. Lulu is moving on to whatever is next; I’m sharing the hurt…

An Observation

Watching her
Once so vibrant

Forces a
Sight of frantic

osv 10/14

Our Special Theory of Creativity

A Micro-Essay

The notion that creative ideas come from within the artist, while the widely held, seems narrow.  And more than a little self-involved.  The writer, painter, the musician are exempt from the laws of physics?  They get to create something from nothing while the rest of us are limited to the scant mater and energy already in the universe?  That’s some really upscale chauvinism.

Imagine instead, we live in a vast confusing sea of ideas.  A place where every idea that ever has or ever will occur, exists, irrespective of time.  Artists notice the interesting ones and show them to us.

While anyone could be an artist, the pool will always be limited to those who really notice what surrounds us.


NaPoWriMo Last Day 30


Gentle as rain, the poetry police
Thundered at my mixed metaphor

Then accused me of, splitting, I think,
Infinitives with grammar poor

The hanging judge participle, thinking my words
Predicate syntactic crime

The jury, an actively passive bunch
Took little joy from my rhyme

The discourse was quick, I has no defense
But felt no need for penance

Foreshadowed is seemed, from the very first word
I was given a fragmented sentence

So here I sit, poetic license revoked
Condition of release now imposed

For the next thirty days, for my own good
I’m only allow to write prose