Why do I do this?

( an answer to an existential question)

Do I even want to be heard?
My thought simply bubbles up
A line sets me off in a rush of words
And all play of image and sound
Ripples from my tongue, or
Roars, in a ranting demonic trashing
Of something wrong or evil with
Morality puffed up or in despair.

I must ease frustration,  let my heart free,
Speak gently of my love for you,
Or  advertise my awe and wonder
About my camp of unknown readers.

But sometimes I hold a mirror
To peer into the hollow room of myself

From my conscious dreaming
Thoughts run together, enjambing sense
And sensibility as I do this —
For you, and for me
in the doing of it.
Kent Bowker   2/1/2012


I found myself tearful today
reading an obituary of Vaclav Havel
in the London Review of Books —
my late friend and I often exchanged –-
But when Death comes close
I busy myself with inconsequential things.

Death crept in slowly
months of preparation
costume changes, poor disguises.
I said I would be back later
to read amusing things to him.
But He came and left with him..

Kent Bowker    1/23/12