Promises, I make stupid promises:

I have mentioned that my writing class as Oxford has now started our own Blog. We are putting up work and challenges about work. The first one was to write a poem that ended with the line, “It doesn’t have to end this way.”

A big problem for me as I had probably not read more than 10 poems in my life, not a form I was ever comfortable with. However a challenge is a challenge. My problem here is, as I mentioned at the end of August, that when or if I did get a poem written, I would post it here. Caught in my own trap.

It gets worst. I chose a Villanelle as my poem form. Don’t know what that is? Don’t worry until mid-summer I didn’t either. And even now, I didn’t get that right. It was supposed to be to have a specific rhyme scheme. I was working along and was having trouble with the rhymes so I went on line to check again about the scheme pattern. The two Villanelles that I found didn’t have any rhyme. Good I though, this is too hard anyway, so the rhymes are out. Of course, when I finished and posted it on the writer’s Blog I find that there was supposed to be a rhyme scheme. Oh well.

I have to confess the other writers didn’t take me to task, but were very supportive. One of them even congratulated me for the courage to break the scheme in my first poem. Proving once again its better to be lucky than smart.

Anyway as promised, here is the first poem I ever written.

Indeterminate Journey

Tangled across Time's currents; we drift.
Unthinking we choose randomly,
It doesn't have to end this way.

Old habits inform habits new
While unthinking, we wander aimlessly.
Tangled across Time's currents; we drift.

Unthinking we except givens
that trap us in lies we create.
It doesn't have to end this way.

Sadly we sing stories and show scars
until unthinking habit stages them.
Tangled across Time's currents; we drift.

Unthinking response to antiquated dogma
builds walls of stone perceived as paper.
It doesn't have to end this way.

Lies we have given ourselves we welcome
until what we own is what we are.
Tangled across Time's currents; we drift.
It doesn't have to end this way.


The truth is this is my second poem by about two hours. The first was a limerick.

Plea for the defense.

There once was a guy from Californ-i-a
who looked for rhymes that weren't cliché.
He thought ever time
as he forced every rhyme,
I'm sure it doesn't have to end this way.


People seemed to like that, as it contained the forced rhyme. Maybe I could get a job writing greeting cards. But the best course of action may be, “Don’t give up your day job.”