Three Short Poems
Belatedness
Nothing worth saying’s now left to be said.
That too’s a cliché, quips the voice in my head.
No thought’s not been thought; every feeling’s been felt.
The task is to play best the hand we’ve been dealt.
To an Antichrist
You think they’ll follow you to Hell and back,
but on this point you’re only half right, Jack.
The Gesture
I’d hoped to write you something good tonight,
but now I’m blanking out on what to say.
Just no ideas. (At least the meter’s tight.)
I’d hoped to write you something good tonight,
forgetting that the Muse can bolt for spite.
So please forgive this simple triolet.
I’d hoped to write you something good tonight
but blanked out to the end on what to say.
Robert West
If you have any thoughts about this
poem, Robert West would like to
hear them
