Skip to content

The Door

October 3, 2012

I built it myself, you know.



“You’ll never make a living at it,” he said.


Capricorn practicality picked up the gauntlet:

Worked  myself ass-less between the ears

Sought and achieved sheepskins

paved a living

double-mortgaged a money-pit

went in hock for cars

all with the door shut.



But I didn’t just construct the door;

Far too miniscule for me —

Instead, obsessive door obstruction:

Stuffed every crack,

Caulked and varnished to seamless,

Hinged in iron-corrosion-rust.

Immuring that right-brain spark,

the flame self-immolated,

damn-near choked to death.

Hence, the jagged-sanity glare.



Now near-end:

The door’s mountain-high

With passes so snowed shut

That Life’s glacial.

Is that all there is?

This frozen door?

Give me dynamite or give  me death.



Door destruction in a single blast;

Clearing debris’s sucked time.

But the message is clear, Dad:

There’s making a living and then

There’s making Life.




keeping the door open is the dare.

Fellow doorstops help.


From → Creative @ Work

  1. Nice Poem! I can see this being spoken at a coffee shop poetry night sometime.

Talk back to me!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: