Spring Cleaning for the Spotty Mind

My notebook and I out walking went,
and in three miles, I wrote five poems.
I held my notebook in one hand and kissed it,
and slapped myself upside the head
For my gross underachivement.
The number of poems
Just blowing down the street,
Lying forgotten on the pavement,
Is a verse approaching infinite.

Seven Notes

I play the same seven notes on the same major scale.
To all but the player, they must surely grow stale,
But I'll write the same poems, all day and all night,
At least until I get one of them right.

It's a Different Color Now

I walk by an old friend's old house,
Only to find it's a different color now,
and the friend I had isn't my friend somehow.
So it is in suburbia. Change
Is just a diversion-charade
To hide the same old uncomfortable same.

Medium Rare

Being born this way might not be bad, but I've
Known what it is to be raw and bloody–alive.
Now I'm medium rare–that is, nearly half-done.
I walk the same streets that the old me would run.
I'll keep coming full circle, just slower, 'til I learn
To let go of this wheel, find a new one to turn.

The Way That Things Do

I prayed then to understand, to become more like you.
Years have passed.  That's turned out the way that things do.
I still don't know half of what I begged to learn.
I've grown lazy, let go of our fire that burned.
I had half your compassion, six times what I have now.
The mean streak you were missing got bigger somehow.
I have doubts I could pull off your final retreat.
Hosting doubt's just step one to admitting defeat.
Over time, which, in hindsight, has slogged on in a blur,
I've become the opposite of whoever you were.

The Poetic Qualities of Living to Fight Another Day

I'm ponderous, pensive, pedantic, perverse,
Grinding gears, spinning wheels, off the rails, in reverse,
On the ropes, off my rocker, untracked, out of control,
Upside-down and lopsided, but ready to roll,
Lead-footed, light-headed, in the drink, out of air.
I'm too late for directions and too dumb to care.
There are thousands of words for my mind when it's seething,
But I'll settle for one word, as long as it's “breathing.”

Doubts

When everyone doubts me, that's par for the course.
I dash their dark hopes with no shade of remorse,
But when I lead the doubt parade, I start to get tense.
Everything that I am hits the red RPMs.
I'm not calm trying things I don't know I can do,
But what can I do when I'm cool and I'm loose?
When I'm tense, tight and rigid, it keeps my mind here.
Nothing there is makes me stronger than fear.