Poet, Write What You Know

All I know is this headache.
Flaring pain circumscribes my world.
You might say it hurts like being circumscribed
without anesthesia. This is how you might think
if there were room for you in my head.
Poets don’t write about love and roses
so much any more.  I’d love to be rid
of this headache; it blooms like a red, red rose.
It hurts so much I cannot remember
if this headache caused the rain
or the other way around.   I feel like
I could vomit up roses, a bouquet,
long-stemmed even.  I have just enough strength
to put down the pencil and close my eyes.


His headaches come on with changes in the weather, rain on the metal roof, black clouds, a pressure. Hood up, glasses off, focused on potato leek soup at close range. Beautiful yellow bubbles, sheen, oil slick, daisies blooming in a green field of absence. Voices ebbing, barely there. He is flying low over the ocean, low on fuel, looking for an island, one chance to set down and swim for it.


About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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