2/6/11

I haven’t got a thing to say,
No words of any interest,
No observations of the day,
No passions that I may profess.
I wish not to philosophize,
The muse returns a cold rebuff.
Today, I lived. Today, I died.
Is that not poetry enough?
2/5/11

A simple, single, sheet of paper, creased widthwise in half,
With no intrinsic value.  No one’s famous autograph.
No winning contest numbers, nor a secret ballot vote.
Not minted into currency, or stocks or banking notes.
No permit, ticket, license, or identifying proof.
No oracle’s prophetic wisdom, scribbled down forsooth.
Like thousands I have thrown away, this page unbound and plain,
Yet, priceless now, it’s surface inked forever with your name.