After Bukowski 3 Jan 2018 Poem by Charmaine Burke

I write
My poems
As a kind
Of
Rant

Poor
Poetry
From
All the
Stresses
And
Pettiness
Of the things that
I feel
Which
Truth be told
Are mere wisps
Or vagaries
Transient
Emotions
That have no real life
Or power
Of their own

Yet
They are what
Ends up
On the page
A spilling out
Or spewing
Of whatever it is that
Has
Taken hold
Of that particular moment
In time

Such poor efforts
Yet
They are all I have
Mere mortal
That I am
So full
Of self
Yet struggling
To embrace
What is beyond any power
Of mine or
Anyone's
To reach

That divine space
That emptying of self
Such
Is the
Frailty
Of our mortal lives