Submitted by Neil McKay on December 5, 2012
Don't kid yourself, my boy,
That your poem will do anything,
Change anything, amount to anything.
That stanza that you think will make it all clear
To the rest of the world is obtuse and besides
It doesn't even rhyme.
No, don't try to make your mark
With poetry, learn to paint, maybe.
Or better still, become a firefighter,
A surgeon, a realtor. Then you will
Have an impact on humanity.
Then you will have a legacy.
Your poem, at best, will make folks laugh,
Give them a respite from the realities of life.
In rare cases, it might change you.
Turn you into a poet.
But don't write to change the world
Not if you truly want to.
Submitted by Neil McKay on November 20, 2012
James Street runs north to south,
Or south to north depending
On whether I am coming to your house,
Or going back to mine.
There are eleven hundred
And forty eight steps from my house
To yours. There are twenty-two hundred
And ninety six steps back to mine.
Submitted by Neil McKay on November 20, 2012
The moon strolls by your house
With no one watching.
A possum tries to get in
Or out of your crawlspace
On tiptoe so he won't disturb us.
You are asleep like a child,
I am snoring like an old man.
In the morning the paperboy will
Wake me with his pitcher's arm.
You will wait until the coffee is made.
On Saturdays I rise for you.
Submitted by Neil McKay on November 11, 2012
John, I am trying, but I cannot
Imagine that world where there is
Nothing to kill or die for.
When we look at strangers faces
We see the differences instead of similarities
Our us is much smaller than our them
What kind of slap in the face
Would it take to convince us
That there are no possessions?
We've lost everything over and over
We've lost sons and daughters
What could we possibly own?
One thing. We own our religion.
That is something that none of the rest
Of God's creatures wants any part of.
John, when your candle was blown out
I hope you found that world
And I hope someday to join you.
Submitted by Neil McKay on November 11, 2012
We have come so far,
We humans, out of the muck,
Out of the forest.
We have stepped outside.
No longer a part of the world which took care of us,
We are apart from the world
And we no longer ask for her love.
Instead we force her to dispense
Her gifts out of turn.
Until they run out and we are left
To truly depend on our own resources.
In other words, to wither and die
Was this the sin of the dinosaurs?
Will the cockroaches who succeed us
Fall prey to the same greed and short-sightedness?
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