August 11. I seem to be writing a fair. amount of poetry about poetry. Always a concerning sign.

This poem
(which sucks)
at least
does not suck as badly
as the poem I wrote yesterday,
but sucks in comparison
to at least some of the poems
that are waiting for me
to discover
in all my tomorrows.
I hope.
But that is a worry
for another day.
I suppose I should revisit
this poem
(which sucks)
when it is not now
when the sunlight fades in the west
when the muse visits again
when the moon is in Leo
when the rain stops
when I have had a snack
when I am not distracted
when I am not depressed
when I have read something
inspirational
when the poem decides to reveal
its true self.
Then 
maybe
I can help the poem lift itself
to OK, and then
maybe
to average.
We should all be so lucky.

Once someone asked
how I write poetry.
My answer of 'cautiously'
did not amuse them.
They wanted to know
whether my fingers grasped
pen and paper, keyboard,
tapped on a screen,
scratched in the dirt
or grabbed a microphone
maybe.
When my muse smites
I scramble to capture
the idea 
with any nearby device.
Ideas
are fragile, must be captured instantly,
too evanescent to rely
on equally fragile memory,
lost in the welter 
of random words, phrases,
thoughts, bits of songs
that wander my brain,
homeless like Hamlet's dad,
bumping into each other,
like little puppies
escaped from the leash,
one too many similes
for a tiny poem.
I wish my questioner
would ask me about
important poetry things,
like when to stop
writing
before killing the poem
how to stay fresh
in the meantime
before it's time
to write again.

wrote Personal Poem
full of hopes, dreams,
what he wanted to be
when he grew up.
He wanted a silver hard hat
to wear on the high steel.
He included not wants,
like being a famous poet
in the poet's walk
in San Francisco.
Of course it's personal.
He thought and said
every poem is personal,
even the odes, paeans,
elegies, memoriams, 
occasionals, limericks, 
scat, hip-hop, rap,
pastoral, epic,
haiku, villanelles,
ekphrastics,
where the poet lets form rule
holds self at arm's length
hides self behind a curtain
effaces self
The poet fails.
The curtain is peeled back,
to reveal the exposed nerves,
the warts, the pain, 
the failing.
Ever since Walt
poets have swaggered, staggered in, 
pushed to the front of the room, 
issued a barbaric I,
abstract just a vain attempt to push back against the personal
spontaneous combustion

Everything is in the poems.
you just go on your nerve.

it glitters in the sunlight
on the apron in front of its home,
the freshly washed pride and joy
of Engine Co. No. 12.
Hoses are stretched out
no doubt for inspection
and to retard kinks.
One firefighter is wiping down
the driver's door,
collecting the last bits of water
that mar the surface.
Day after sunny day
the firetruck sits out in the sun,
waiting like one of the great cats
to leap into action
with horns and sirens and flashing bells
to quickly subdue its adversary 
and return to napping.
Although taxpayers might question all these
highly paid professionals
sitting around
watching TV, 
washing the truck,
playing cards,
napping, exercising,
talking to kids 
they are alert
paid to be at the ready 
to spring into action
jump on the truck
at a moment's notice
gobble up pavement
until they reach the place
where they will unfurl hoses,
raise ladders, unpack gear,
rescue people and pets,
commit heroic actions,
and generally stabilize the situation,
highlights for the evening news
until quietly returning home
letting big cat No. 12 
sleep.