A Passing Phase?

Poem By Richard Quinby

A passing phase,
Pus draining from a few
Festering sores,
A mild case of
Emotional diarrhea?

Or a turning point;
Am I a late bloomer
Coming at last
Into my own?

Will people someday
Look back
On my body of work
And say,
“Richard Quinby didn’t even begin
To write seriously till he was fifty.”
And hold me up as some
Poster boy for AARP?

Will I die
Unknown, Unpublished?
Will my heirs
Hard drives and trunks
Filled with trite ditties
Or pay a few bills
With small yearly

It amuses me
To think
Pompous college Professors
Will pontificate,
Boring freshmen
With dry discussions
Of Quinby’s early works;
Stilted Sentimentality showing
Little promise.

Perhaps my later works
Will be called,
“The writings of a poet
Matured and mellowed,
A seasoned craftsmen”
Or studied as:
“The ramblings of a madman,
A second rate Bukowski
Lost in the
Dark Despair
Acute Alcoholism.”

I would settle
For either
Anything but
Living and dying
Only to pass
Into oblivion
Leaving a few faint
Marks quickly faded.


Comments about A Passing Phase?

We all have that fear of not being remembered it think. We fear that all our ideas so wantingly to be shared but always overlooked. As you said the mad rambling of a madman (well in my case women) . Great write. Don't worry if people don't remember you then they aren't good enough for you or your poetry. Lylyanna
This really has a momentum to it. It isn't easy writing with this view, well done.
Richard...frankly, I think we're all headed for the unread, unloved pile in the back room. Bukowski? He may squeek through, though I haven't seen any of his books in bookstore windows here in Germany where he is supposed to be so popular. When it's all over I hope to be sitting at his table, and I hope to hear him say, 'Kay, a couple of your poems were good, but the rest were shit. Let's drink.' Maybe you'll be at that table and have some luck.

Rating Card

4,8 out of 5
2 total ratings

Other poems of QUINBY

A Poem Never Written

I found your panties
tangled in
my sheets

Nocturnal Longings

It has become a pattern;
each night I sit here at my desk
delaying going to our


Their voices call to me
Old friends whispering
pleading and entreating
Their siren song

A Season Of Neglect (Revised)

Looking out my back window today
I saw what this season of neglect has done to my yard
The weeds running wild, the shrubs untrimmed
And all the flowers I so lovingly planted,

Our Cats

There’s a cat
in my
bathroom sink.