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    Worms: And Other Poems
    Worms: And Other Poems
    Worms: And Other Poems
    Ebook86 pages25 minutes

    Worms: And Other Poems

    By Jay Tanenbaum

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    About this ebook

    This book of poetry is centered around psychological themes. It is primarily designed for anyone who has wondered how they pertain to the events which occur in everyday life.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherXlibris US
    Release dateSep 7, 2018
    ISBN9781984545169
    Worms: And Other Poems
    Author

    Jay Tanenbaum

    The author is a retired psychiatrist who wrote most of his poetry in the nineteen seventies and eighties. He resides in Lafayette, California with his wife Kathleen

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      Book preview

      Worms - Jay Tanenbaum

      A Life

      Why doesn’t somebody hate me?

      Is this also too much to ask?

                   Twenty years

                   Of living

                   Unseen face

                   Observing

                   No one for

                   Nor against

                   Meaningless

                   No matter—

      This is what I chose for myself.

      Did I? Something in my too Freudian mind

      Did it. I saw too much.

      Maybe I saw what wasn’t there.

      Yosemite

      Standing in hot September snow,

      Dressed in sunlight and the bluest sky,

      The whole world spread out below,

      Light-years away from words like why.

      Thinking only when spoken to,

      Letting what I see be me,

      Feeling like I’ve broken through,

      I’m less like a man, more like a tree.

      A Matter of Taste

      My pockets are empty;

      My memory, gone.

      The night is still spinning

      Its web around dawn.

      I look at the traffic:

      Swift arrows of steel;

      The experts are baffled

      Which motions are real.

      The songs we have cherished

      Are always played twice—

      Once for the audience,

      Once for the dice.

      I follow your footsteps

      But you are not there;

      I hear the loudspeaker

      But the cupboard is bare.

      Wrinkle, Wrinkle, Little Star

      He didn’t ever stop to say

      What kept him at the edge

      But seemed to be afraid to play,

      Listening behind some hedge

      Or other, sure that life is

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