Today we return to the poetry of Mr Lionel Fogarty

Tired of Writing

A long time since I picked up a pen
Again.
And I had to pick ability in writing
Some call it poetry
I see it as putting something
from nothing, that’s my practice.
Carrying targets of beauty and living
first tongue, painless are my words.
We foresee sterile crippled shadows
healing are answers.
Midnight whitened muscles that
frosted a country’s autumn.
My mind in time
is what rhymes.
Now I’m of sometime
Long tomorrows will make summer sooner.
Sometimes me write bad
just to be glad.
Little we read
dead seeds may be reeds of lifefulness.
So I wrote.
But will you remote, note
Space took a pace
Rat race
Whata play, ace
Just in fine lines
Our true times
Are never true.
Sometimes I don’t think.
To write I have to use
a medium
that is not mine.
If I don’t succeed, bear with me.
I see words beyond any acceptable meaning
And this is how I express my dreaming…

July 1982