I have had a lifelong love of poetry. My mother was a great proponent of American literature, which she taught to mostly uninterested middle school students. She bequeathed to me a love of Poe, Frost and others. My fascination with the art has gone much further afield than this, of course.

Because of these tastes, I enjoy writing poetry, generally bad poetry.  It gives me opportunity to express myself, even if it will never see the light of day or be read beyond these pages. That is not the point, as it is for me and no one else.

However, my third brother, Douglas, has a courageous heart and a willingness to put it out for the world to examine. This is no doubt aided by the fact that his rhyme and prose is infinitely better than my own. I thought then that I would share two of his below.

      Swamp Thang                                                      
Luminous sheet of green,                                 
splintering forward as we pass.                          
A log floats ahead,
then ominous eyes appear.

One plank left on a decayed pier,
old boat anchored to the shed,     
covered in clumps of grass,       
light fading and setting the scene.

Cypress trees loom larger-than-life,    
holding moss like coin purses.
Standing majestic for hundreds of years, 
blocking out what’s left of the Sun’s light.

This is no place to be into the night,  
paddling faster as land is near.
Everyone knows of the curse,
yet the thought creates strife.

The creature goes by many names,
but locals call him Rougarou.
Morphing into a werewolf,
hunting animals and humans alike.

      T-Minus
Anything goes,
to evolve, to reincarnate.

Limiting intake,
and to exhaustion and back.

All to melt in a puddle –
to shed my past sins.

Awaiting discovery,
deflowered in reverse.

To be looked upon,
instead of through.

I have arrived.