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.
Author's and Editor's Note: I'm quite aware that my poetry doesn't measure up to the level of the poetry in this journal. Not to worry. We don't have to pretend. To be sure, I publish my own work for two reasons: firstly, this is my journal and I can do what I want, and secondly, I have trouble rejecting myself :)
A chance comes with the sunrise —
Happens every day —
Take it — leave it — you decide —
No one else can say.
Time will be when all is done —
So — life is defined —
Once the moment's past — it's gone —
Too late to change your mind.
The day like others came and went
Though different from them was —
Its passage grayed with stain of death —
Unwashable by tears.
The clock ignored the pace of time
As now and then it does —
And left me grieving for my mom —
While minutes turned to years.
The Poet Wars
Because some poets were jealous of other poets —
and because things that are either wax or wane —
there came to be two separate groups of poets.
And even though each group, in terms of pure
composition, was similar — that is, each group
had every kind of poet imaginable in it — they
were, notwithstanding, enemies. In fact each
group, or team, had its own shade of brown.
So. The poets split up into two groups which
then became teams which then became kingdoms
which had armies (which were usually wordfighting).
The Poet Wars began soon after that. The initial
incident, the famous Battle over an Oxford Comma,
was, as you undoubtedly know, declared a draw.
©2016 Firestone Feinberg