Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

When I read the words I could taste
a acrid dollop of confusion on my tongue,
I was either dreaming or The Baltimore Sun
had been delivered to my final resting place,
but it wasn't nightmarish mind you
just surprising to read your own obituary

I had always wondered what people would say
about me when I left my earthly vehicle abandoned
on the side of the road, every morning I would read
in the Maryland section of the paper about what others
I assumed, thought were the deceased's strong points,
the marks they carved in the tree of life, oh my
everyone seemed so accomplished, their degrees,

their volunteer work, their inventions, the countless
hours helping little old ladies cross the street, oh man
what were people going to say about me, I always
wondered, morning after morning, and now, here it was

Wordsworth A. Fortune died yesterday of unknown causes.
Mr. Fortune, the son of Wellington and Matilda Fortune
was given his name by his father in the hope that some day
he would become a great writer, but much to the chagrin
of his exasperated daddy, Mr. Fortune spent all his time
writing silly poems, none of which be bothered to get published

family and friends alike reported that they didn't know whether
Mr. Fortune was unmotivated, plum lazy, or just didn't give a shit
about the recognition, but many told The Sun that he simply had
nothing to say. All agreed that he locked himself for hours in the attic every day crashing keys on his Smith Corona late into the evenings
cursing, howling, and jumping up and down on his desk and on more

than one occasion had hurled his typewriter into his neighbor's flower bed
Fortune was known to be distant, introspective and opinionated with no
particular skills. Mr. Fortune liked to have a nip or two at his local pub
and had a reputation as man that could hold his liquor but not his tongue.
The family reported that Mr. Fortune's will stipulates that he would like
to be cremated, further requesting that his ashes be stuffed into
the ventilation system of his local poetry venue, with the fan cranked up

to SuperBlow, thereby dispersing himself all over the faces of his lame
brained critics at the first poetry reading following his departure.
Mr. Fortune further instructed that in lieu of flowers that each of his
colleagues write a "gooood" poem to be incinerated with his body.

wow what a great idea i know ive always wondered what people would say at my demise.
your poem is so well constructed and expresses a range of emotion from bitterness to a joy better than sex.a sentiment only someone that loves writing understands

thanks for making my day
dave

so well captured; enjoyed.

a goood poem
yes indeed
thank you
I would if I could
if i was a poet
write one to burn
about the poet
who lady fortune loved
because his poet hart was pure
with the ladies
he left some satisfied women riding in a long black Cadillac
mourning a prestigious poet

I never slop about in the sty of my pity
for there are numerous young women
from the Art Institute that think I'm Deep,
sneak me up to their dorm rooms
for exclusive midnight readings.
http://studioeight.tv/phpbb/viewtopic.p ... rm#p138394

thanx for the nice comments all....snowman, dadio, short timer, much obliged

short timer...thanx for the great picture of Lady Fortune and for the way you linked this to another one of my poems.....appreciate the investment.....

put it down to 'gabapentin passing thoughts
known side effects
I hope I did not over do it
I meant it as a homage to your poetry


"for me a flatterer is worse than a murderer" I.B. Singer on behavior modification.