By: Dan Holt

Doing What He Loved

He always
sat on the porch
smoking
filterless cigarettes
all the way down
until they burned his fingers

He would
toss them in the yard
and light another

One day
the dry grass
caught fire

He just sat there
in his shorts
and undershirt
smoking
and watching
the fire
get closer
to the porch

He was
still sitting there
when they found him
burned beyond
all recognition

What a needless
death
they said

He could
have been saved

I said he died
doing what he loved

###

The Whiskey And The Blood

Face down
on the table
The Whiskey
and the blood
pooling on the floor
The knife
and the gun
beside him
The barrel cold
The edge of the blade
Untested

###

Questions In A Crowded Room

They don’t seem
to have voices in their heads
or screaming in their ears
and they
always seem to know
what they are saying
when they are saying it
They always seem to know
who will be looking back
from the mirror each morning

Is it because they can trust
what their minds are telling them?
Or is it because
they can just handle it better than I can?

Am I the only one
in this crowded room
who has
a crowded room
In his head?

What do they think when they see me?
Can they hear the din of voices?
Can they see the caged animal fear
That my eyes surely must betray?

***

Dan Holt is blues singer/songwriter/recording artist, poet and fiction author from a suburb of Cleveland, Ohio. He has produced 11 albums of original music along with various singles and eps. Like most writers, his work has been published in various tiny online and print journals. After many years away from the poetry scene, Dan has returned to writing poetry in 2021.