101: Prelude

I have a confession to make. In fact, I have a few confessions to make. See, I’ve been writing poetry for around ten years. Before that, I wrote lyrics. Before that, I tittered down things now and again, grand ideas in my mind for the next great story, and surprisingly legible scribbles of unsurprisingly childish notions. Regardless, I’ve been fascinated with writing for as long as I can remember. I still have hope that one day I might not be half bad.



I’ve given up the Fig Leaf,

I got a new haircut, trimmed my beard

I’ve given up the Chapel,

for the dream of hopeless possibility.

I’ve given up the idea

I was born ever-curious

that Fault was in an apple.

to Cupid’s vocation.

I’ll argue every day

I accepted, many years ago, my nature

that The Effort must improve,

and the futility of looking past my heart.

yet the thought of hopelessness

The hopeless romantic

near to tears did have me move.

herein resides.


To Balto, To Togo, To All The Good Boys

When Hell froze over,
you sprinted for infinity.
Granted, to run
seemed your sole affinity,

but simply doing
your simple love
made all the difference
‘tween nil and enough.

So thank you for Nome,
and thank you for hope;
may you ever tread prints
in the freshest of snow.

© Blake Leitch April 10, 2019