Mr. Good Cheer

The hobbyist poets maunder. Most are
Morose. I read them, anyway; quid
Pro quo, as they read me. At some
Point I get up. I'm bored. I pass
The mirror in the hallway, and I see
Within it some old man, who's
Haggard, looking back. He's not
The one I used to be. Who hung
Those satchels from his eyes?
Who taught him how to heave
That way? Has he forgotten how
To breathe? What is there in that
Haggard face which signals his
Passivity? He's going to die.
He's going to die!, and yet there's
No sign that he cares. He passes
Out of sight in time, and I pour
Up another coffee, turn back
To the hobby poets and their
Brittle discontents. My journey
Leaves me out of breath. Even so,
I'd rather not be as they are: morose.

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2016-12-16 at 00:13

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We're all hobby poets here aren't we?

Well I'm not morose at least

Kathy Lockhart The PoetBay support member heart!
I love the title. The body is genius in its sarcasm and wit. I suppose there is nothing worse than a morose maunderer. At least when you are bored. :)

So grotesque. And, ah, the irony!

Christopher Fernie
Dear Larry,

Your recent work has the haunting echoes of Raymond Carver, a poet I was fortunate to meet in Manchester during his poetry reading tour of the UK. You have a similar 'voice' to his... and I love it!

Don't pop off just yet: you have far to go.

With best festive wishes,


Jamsbo Rockda The PoetBay support member heart!
I don't like to see the guy in the mirror. He shatters my expectations. This is mean't to be a happy piece but it portends an end we all must reach. How much coffee do you drink? It is quite addictive.

Ashe The PoetBay support member heart!
It's an acceptance, a readiness to die, but still a desire to live more. To be like before, lith,
e and young and full of vitality. But, it;s gone and we accept Life is coming to an end. We have always known that it would end, but it is still hard to see the Reaper come closer and closssr