I'm a husband, a father, a grandfather, an uncle, a friend, a pianist, a composer; I'm a poet, a painter, a piano tuner, and a retired music teacher. I'm a relatively observant Jew and a diehard socialist. I'm 65 years old and live in NYC with my wonderful wife, Susan. And even though I don't have a college degree in English, I am the editor of the best online community poetry journal in the world.
Verses are untimely guests
Descending when they choose
Upon the slumber of the bard
Dreaming in his bed.
He will not get a rightful rest
So deems an errant muse
No matter, then, his waking hard —
Again the pair are wed.
Experience — a teacher
Whose methods are quite strange —
She waits for you to reach her
And watches as you change.
No written test is given
At this peculiar school —
The proof is in the living —
By that you pass or fail.
A Poem Perhaps
There are a million ways to
say a million things. And not one of
them is better than satisfactory.
Experience itself cannot be told, but
it can be hinted at in some incarnations of art.
This is one.
Don't judge too harshly the flowers of the field
because they weren't chosen for the garden.
©2016 Firestone Feinberg