There was no cataclysm at my birth,
nor signs, nor omens, nor oracles of worth,
just the thunderless, blood-protest squall
that is the common heritage for all.
Oh pride my father of defiance
and scorn my mother of disdain,
as offspring of this cold alliance
I have doomed myself to pain.
Who am I to wage the war of youth,
this slow, tired dreamer blind to truth.
The last man visioning some dreary parade,
without the promise of an accolade.
That which was mine for a while
has almost always died or faded,
leaving me a bitter exile
as much dispassionate as jaded.
Were I, too soon, this fleeting life to leave
the ravages of wasted days would grieve
my passing, in my passionate intent
I cried desire, but left my self unspent.
Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director, and as an art dealer when he couldn’t make a living in theater. He has 11 published chapbooks. His poetry collection, Fault Lines, Perceptions, Tremors and Perturbations will be published by Winter Goose Publishing. He has published 3 novels, plus short story collections , original plays and translations. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines. He currently lives in New York City.