Why I Should Poem

Why I Should Poem

Why I Should Poem

Why I Should

Because I still breathe
because I have something to say
if it is only me
Even if it’s only me
saying it to

Because the sun came up and the rivers flowed
and if feels good to say so

because it’s the end of a year
a new year and
and it felt good to say so

because I’m a crazy fool
who will spend his last penny
making something he likes
even if others throw it away

even if it rots in the back of an unknown book
even if it is forever an unknown song
even if it rots in a basement

so I will grab another handful
of colored sand
for whose works
are not

Why Should I Poem

Why Should I Poem

Why Should I

There are two points in every life

that is in the artist life

the point where the painting and words and music

and the person

are asking why

with a fire unlike any fire

and a point

where the artist or writer or musician

and person

is asking

why should I?

why should I?

I beat my primordial head

on this stone in this cave

why am I not hunting the elk

instead of scratching with this

blunt burnt stick

until my hands  are worn

and I beat on this stone with these hands

and this stick.

“Oh you have drawn the elk

we saw him this morning

but wasn’t his leg longer

and his horn had more points.”

what I saw

what I saw

what I saw

I do not understand

I cannot understand

Why should I?


david michael jackson

Maybe if you just express those moments they won’t stand in the way of the bigger why. Maybe. We’ll  see.

WordPress Getting Started

The first part of this video is concerned with the installation of a new WordPress Blog. If you wish to review the basics of making posts at Artvilla and would like to be one of the total idiots who work for free for something called art or poetry or music and you feel journalistic in a moment of weakness or whatever just contact us.
Wordpress Getting Started

Egret Poem by Michael Estabrook

egret poem

egret poem




Tall gray bird, an egret I think, standing

in the shallows of a small pond over in

the fields behind the high school,

poised, quiet, elegant, intensely

focused, his head with its long beak

snapping suddenly like a whip

into the water, stabbing at one

of the innumerable, plump, brown

tadpoles beginning to kick their frog

legs. But he misses, comes up dry,

his beady eyes staring down

into the dark water, incredulous

at having missed and,

if I didn’t know better, a little

bit embarrassed about it too.


Egret © Michael Estabrook 2012