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  • Writer's pictureD. Ellsworth Hoag

Life is Alone

We enter this world alone and traverse our course interacting, but never being part of another. Our conceptions are our own and may be edited with accepted input. In the end what we see is only ours and no amount of description can truly convey anything but an echo of the total. Thus we are ghosts even as we walk about. This leads to poets writing introspective pieces in a hope to share their human experience. Sometimes it almost works and sometimes is a blatant miss.

Poetry at its best is reflecting a common experience shared in some way by all people. I hope these selections meet that criteria.






staccato images,

rubble of what once had been whole.

dominos sequentially fall into each other.

a war scene of random rubble,

in the labyrinth

I stumble.

I'm lost,




thoughts in shards,

eyes that dimly see,

I follow words but not meaning.

bricks, mortar, splintered glass litter

the field of my mind, a cacophony of vision.

Escher and Dali duel in me,

op-art, or warped view.

yes, surreal.




Record Of Events

Talk to me in dulcet tones

of times long gone by

with words so descriptive

they paint on my mind's eye.

Memories that ripple,

bounce back yesterday's light,

so I can understand

both with feeling and sight.

Then I can see clear,

without the static of mundane,

and mayhaps understand

what's hardest to explain.

For if I comprehend

the mores of the time

then causality

can show—reason and rhyme.


The world is interpretation

of the things I see;

what I conceive

as import is my reality.

I stain white paper

with ciphers in dark black

and follow what I believe

down my own track.

I am all alone

on this terrestrial sphere

for what it speaks

are words only for my ear.

All doors are locked—

and I within;

perception is filtered

while entering my skin.

From the inside

I write my decree

and build truth

out of my vanity.

Nature almost writes itself

upon my brain,

but I edit it profusely—

only my thoughts remain.

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