Death, a certainty in life
Dirt in sleepy eyes
Then the rain came;
Death, a certainty in life
Changes as the clouds in the sky
Midwestern Poetry, By Terry Scott Niebeling
Poetry for Profit;
The dilettante says.
It just doesn’t happen,
It’s an illusion in the sick minded head.
Ads which have mislead.
They have a job to do:
They have to pose and fit for trends.
If you do it for monetary reasons,
You won’t genuinely achieve success.
Real artists have bled,
They don’t concern themselves with worrying about the point-spread.
People live fantasy lives all the time
Where they are famous
They are sought-after
They are “the greatest”, labeled by their closest friends.
Where they try their best to be noticed,
But no one cares in the end.
If you write to proclaim “I’m a poet”,
To get paid cash and attain lavish threads,
To fulfill a lifestyle image that’s been played-out,
In order to satiate big dreaming ego-ed heads.
I have news for you:
You could write non-stop for the rest of your life,
But writing won’t always be the hot ticket trend.
So many others have paved the way before you,
While you merely lazed lying in your comfy bed.
Try doing your passion for years and years to free your mind, to share thought, to pass the time, unnoticed.
Don’t do it for profit, never do art for profit; take a look at the masters, they lived in destitute, some unrecognized in their lifetimes for what they had accomplished.
Go, go, go-
I know people who have done more with less, they are called my relatives.
I am addicted to pizza…
It’s an excessive fixation
I think I’ve had a slice of pizza
For every situation I’ve been in.
Eyes in front,
Focusing on some high-rise Ant Farm
No coffee; none for sale.
Thoughts on our time
When contemporaries write on depression
And how they want to write,
Do they write for words or recognition?
In my mind,
At the beach
An ex heroin addict describes me as fat- I react.
Off to work
Watching busy professionals pace hard by
Begging for fame- notice me! They say.
-Under heavy skies.
On a boat close an expansive dam
A boy accompanied an Old Man
Fishing for hours cold hands
Only to have come up few clams
The river remained rough
Water spray wet brown splash
Bubbles in the water swirling
Bottom of boat held beer cans
Farther up the boy could see birds
Up close to the tumblers brightly red
Over white-caps exchanged few words
The Old Man palmed his rod in hand
Lock and Dam 7 lent no pension
Yet many prospered in its wake
The Old Man and the boy lay patient
They trolled up and down, but had to wait
Ice coated concrete walls
With rope or hook they fastened tight
Daylight lasted only so long in afternoons
The highway lights suggested night
Untying they came undone
River smell and worms in hand
The fish on the stringer were meager
Pushing off they went towards land
They passed others by and by
Anglers that were mastered
Coming closer to the landing point
Lights on avoiding disaster
Trailing wake in full gait
An out-board went ‘bout 20 knots
Blackness and bugs flew by about them
As they came closer to the docks
Lamplight held empty parking lot
Shown just below the river’s edge
The flat-bottom came parallel the wooden structure
The boy managed at his sea legs
With a hard bump from running in fast
A rope was fastened—quick, and down
The boat made way with the water
The boy made feet with wooden ground
Cold rushed from the river valley out
Nothing held the boy more in life
Than to be out near the Mighty Mississippi
In the dwindling hours of night
As children we are exposed to habits which prove a tradition
As adults we revisit those events to see what lessons were given.