Distracted

Distracted

While attempting

Poetry

 at my desk one day,

fighting off the usual

bears, wolves

and other dangerous beasts

of the internet

between the Muse and Me;

from the teeth of Twitter,

a ferociously distracting

animal,

there leapt out

Billy Collins, Poet

talking of Poetry.

Losing myself

in his

captivating

flow of words

I ended

Poetically satisfied,

but

Poetically wishing

I had not been

ambushed

by dingoes of distraction

and had instead

written

a

Poem.

Published as part of Kilkenny Library Poets on Board Scheme

Who am I

Who am I, now?

I am beyond the point of no return,

more than half a century.

I am not young and I am not old,

(these things are, they say,

in the end, mere numbers.)

I am father,

sometimes mother,

my own parents gone,

yet I am still son.

I am uncle, cousin, brother,

and what are these too but

varying degrees of relative?

Names and labels sometimes fitting

but I am not a cheap portrait,

finalised in one hasty sitting.

No, no, my palette

demands much more

if I am to answer this question

with a truly perfect score.

I ask myself again, repeating the question,

who am I, now?

I am lover, fiancé, gardener, guitarist,

I am writer, widower, poet and artist.

I am blood pressure gone awry,

I am philosopher puzzling why.

I am soon to be retired,

fearful, hopeful,

often tired.

I am all of these and so much more,

these words describe, they name,

they change, they stay the same.

Who am I now?

as I always was

and will be,

I

Am

Simply

Me.