I’ve been slowly moving my poetry into position on this site. There may be scraps left in some corner of the hard drive, but the task is essentially done.
There were curious and inexplicable bursts and equally unexplained lapses. Writing could be more of a habit were I more disciplined. Instead, I await the midnight muse. Something in those hours calls forth a form of loose thinking I require to write evocatively. Not always well the record shows, but sometimes.
Many times, too many, the poems respond to death or a close encounter, or other forms of heartbreak, including the self-inflicted sort.
I gather them here because the desire to remember feels large to me. And there are days when the past seems more real than the bewildering and inexplicable now. I guess this is what real poets always knew.