by Bob Dougherty
a bit is a coin
worth twelve and one-half cents — WOW
a two-bit haiku
a bit is a coin
worth twelve and one-half cents — WOW
a two-bit haiku
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by Bob Dougherty
pick up a precious coin it bears a head with pride yet every bit integrally it has another side flip a coin in the air chance knows how it lands you can spend life flipping coins or think and choose your stands by Bob Dougherty
I was on my back shirt ripped open people standing around murmuring a worried smile kneeling over me paramedics rushed in I didn’t know why it was like fog — but it wasn’t fog in the ambulance there were voices maybe to the ER male early forties overweight possible cardiac arrest then more voices yeah he flat lined at least two minutes slowly I realized they were talking about me my heart was fragile diagnosis — elusive life became eggshells now years later my condition still with me is controlled yet I know I went through a door many times and somehow came back people ask what it’s like and I can only tell them — It isn’t then they almost always ask you mean there’s nothing? and I tell them I didn’t say nothing I know I would have experienced nothing and I didn’t experience time starts with your heart experience flows with its beat time stops with your heart by Bob Dougherty
I write a song of a clever man who wrote with skill and flare, conceiving a saga of every man’s sense of life, love and despair. He wrote through the eyes of an everyman who lived his life in his poems; yet, he thought, “I don’t like my everyman bearing a fictitious name; I’ll be my very Everyman and write as I were the same.” So, our clever man became his Everyman. And his Everyman, clever man’s dream. Our writer and his character became more than just a theme. Then every man bought clever man’s books and Everyman wore the fame. Everyman’s persona became larger than life, as the twain became selfsame. Success grew great for our clever man, but he greyed, inking Everyman’s life. In time, an aged clever man, pen in hand chasing his name, lost his self to his Everyman; a slave to his self-made fame. Without all consuming passion great works never rise. The price of greatness is always great; the artist for the prize. by Bob Dougherty
a moment will come and it is arriving now do you remember? |
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Bob Dougherty is a poet and writer living in Tiburon, CA Archives
January 2020
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