I’ve got me some hoop dreams, Coach! That said, they have nothing to do with basketball…

If you didn’t get that joke it’s like because you weren’t in my grade 11 Law class when the ex-convict stopped by for a Q and A. Your loss, I assure you. Some things you never forget. For me it’s this. And 9/11, of course. Sorry.

Today is the post equivalent of a clip-show episode. A little fresh material at the nose and tail of the broadcast with the fat consisting largely of what is essentially a post-modern repost. Whatever that’s supposed to mean.

I didn’t just pull anything off the shelf though. These are indeed some forgotten favorites. First a musing on wasted time and shaking off casual apathy followed by a brief ode to some my best friends.

“Live”, March 27, 2018.

Often if you wait too long

Miss the good part of the song

It’s not too late though if you try

At least begin before you die

We never know who’s time will come

So live each day negative numb

Then when your string is at last snipped

You will find fortune’s favors flipped.

“Untitled”, April 18, 2018.

Some friends who are always there

Each page more knowledge to share

Grizzled tomes to pamphlets new

Everything in between too

Lofty tales of heroes brave

Innocents for them to save

Wicked fictions horror’s clutch

Killers sly and lovers touch

Learn about the real world

Hidden mysteries unfurled

Travel free of physic’s pull

Mass, gravity, forces null

There’s a book for everyone

Lets not spirit’s freedom shun.

I’m quite fond of the last two lines of the first poem. As a Greek Mythology buff the whole life/string/fates thing really speaks to me as an analogy.

For the record, audio books totally count still as reading. I’m a big time fan. Love walking the dog at night while simultaneously getting my Stephen King fix. Plus it sometimes gives the walk a flavor of potential doom. Most titillating.

Do your thing, my friends!

Happy trails and well, you know,

-Alexander Blaikie

Categories: poetry writing

Tagged as: author brief funny original poem poetry writer writing

dreadpoetssobriety

A broken mind held together by cellophane and some tack.