Poetry Friday

My wife and a bunch of other people participate in poetry thursdays.
I have always fancied myself as a bit of a rebel. So I am going to post some poetry on a friday.
I wrote this poem, I am pretty sure. I found it written on a notepad, in my handwriting. And I have googled some of the phrases with no results, so I don't think I copied it. I am pretty sure I wrote it when we were expecting our first child.

Dimples
by Me

his dimples are deep
and his eyes are brown
but it's not me
it's not me I see
it's our little family.

Now I posted that to show a couple of things. First, I am a freaking awful poet. That is easily the best poetry I have ever written. And it sucks. I tried my hand at poetry writing whilst wooing my wife. Re-reading that has made me realize how crappy and sappy it was, and how lucky I am that I am good at math, hence a career that doesn't involve my linguistic skills.

Secondly, I have no memory. I have no idea when or if I wrote that. What else have I lost? There must have been some reason to write down that particular thought. It was something important to me, something I wanted to express and then keep.

In summary: I suck at poetry, and I have alzheimer's.

If you have suffered through my post thus far I will now reward you. Here is a good poem, one of my favorites:

Litany
by Billy Collins

You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine...
-Jacques Crickillon

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.  ¶ 9:40 PM