Image result for autumn leaves on the ground at night

There is no in between:

You are a misanthrope,

Pleased by life’s aesthetic dream,

Or, you put your hope

In vehicles, lots of talk, a favorite team.

Who I am, I have no doubt.

Yesterday evening, as I walked about,

I felt paradise in the misty, quiet, warm, autumnal air,

Loved the solemn way the small, red and yellow leaves blew around,

And cursed people, laughed at them, and didn’t care

If perhaps they heard me; cursed some creep’s motorcycle sound

That broke feverishly loud against the night,

As people in bad taste outfits walked around,

Poorly shaped, chattering, ugly, oblivious to my plight:

Why can’t I find a sensitive soul like me?

A deep, beautiful soul to love? Without fanfare? With a song, or tea?

Ah! The million things we have to do to make things right!

Breath for the sick, poems of love, sleep that continues in the long, long night.







  1. Gary B. Fitzgerald said,

    October 28, 2016 at 2:41 am


    Such freedom this noncompliance,
    such poetic justice,
    when down the road with wild abandon ride.
    Wind in the hair, all the wrongs ever suffered
    made right with gasoline and naked defiance
    at 100 miles an hour.
    For the moment commanding
    your own life , all the problems and the worries,
    within your power,
    all the bills blown away with the wind.
    A defiance of what we know we can’t defeat,
    defying fate, never knowing how it ends,
    but which grants, at least, a minute
    more of freedom.

    I don’t know how to ride a motorcycle,
    so I just stayed up late tonight, over two hours
    past bedtime, drinking beer and
    writing poetry on a work night.

    Copyright 2008 – Softwood: Seventy-eight Poems, Gary B. Fitzgerald

  2. Gary B. Fitzgerald said,

    October 28, 2016 at 3:23 am

    The Misanthrope

    Yes, humans are the problem, I always said,
    why so many innocent now lay dead.
    It’s the unrelenting, driving need, the primitive fire
    that consumes all required to nurture self,
    produce more seed, to achieve another birth.
    The ultimate proverbial selfish gene,
    like vermin in the pantry of the Earth.

    Malaria, diptheria, suburbia…
    what difference among disease?
    The destruction is the same despite the size.
    The scale does not obscure the fact
    of its effect, despite the lies, prevent
    the gruesome truth of its result.
    Yes, humans are the problem, I say,
    by no selection of their own, just the unstoppable
    unthinking base desire. Some like wolves,
    some like rats, a virus in the body of the world.
    I pretty much just hate them all.
    I wish they’d pass like their empires do,
    relinquish the realm to those who truly love it.

    Later, at the store to get some beer,
    a little girl, maybe seven, maybe eight,
    made it to the door before me…little brat!
    I reached to open it for her, she being a kid
    and all, but she, being quicker, opened it first,
    held it open with a great big smile of victory.
    “Well, thank you.” I said gruffly, in my most adult
    and appreciative voice. “You’re welcome.”
    the little angel said sincerely, without judgment,
    without fear of the grumpy old man with the beard.
    She skipped off after her mother. I stood there.
    Shit! There goes the whole damn theory.
    Maybe there’s hope for us after all.

    Copyright 2008 – Softwood: Seventy-eight Poems, Gary B. Fitzgerald

  3. December 7, 2016 at 5:19 am

    Hey, Gary. Since nobody else has said it, I guess I will:
    I really like these poems.
    Your friend, Gary.

  4. December 7, 2016 at 5:27 am

    You’re welcome, Gary. My pleasure. It’s just too bad that Tom wasn’t here to say that. Of course, though, he hates my poetry.

  5. thomasbrady said,

    December 7, 2016 at 2:56 pm


    There’s hope! There is.

    I’ve experienced that without any signal or sign, many people are out there secretly reading my poetry. I found this out in a very strange manner, once. But yes, you wouldn’t believe who is reading you.

    I don’t need feedback.

    And look, this is all life is: giving exquisite pleasure to a few people. I don’t need a million concert goers swaying to my music. Who cares about that?

    I don’t think this attitude is healthy: please give my poetry credit! Pfffft. You’ll be a better poet if you don’t have that attitude.


  6. December 7, 2016 at 11:37 pm

    It isn’t the poetry that needs credit. It must stand on it’s own
    It’s the friendship.

    • December 8, 2016 at 2:54 am

      Besides, it takes about fifty years before good.poetry is actually even noticed. I don’t have that long.

      • thomasbrady said,

        December 8, 2016 at 3:06 pm

        Yes you do: death and time are illusions.

  7. December 8, 2016 at 10:02 pm

    Fascinating observation. Could you elaborate?
    Einstein and graveyards might disagree.

    • thomasbrady said,

      December 9, 2016 at 2:49 pm

      Damn those graveyards! Always disagreeing with me!!

      But at least Einstein is nice and quiet. 😉

  8. December 9, 2016 at 8:40 pm

    Because I could not stop for death,
    He kindly stopped for me;

    Emily Dickinson

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