Poetry Gods that live above me,
that come down to lecture me
in the early AM dressed in robes
with their scepters and pointers,
their blackboards, rods and staffs,
sagacious minds and divine souls,
come to my bedside and
fill me up with many words.
They praise me for what I know
to raise up my self-esteem
and find the divinity within me
and criticize me for what I
don’t know to keep me humble.
They tell me the sufficiency
of merit is in the knowing
that merit alone is insufficient.
They let me sort out
the words they give me
and leave me to put them
in their proper places and
give me credit for my assistance.
They give me a feeling
in my heart to recognize when
I found the right places.
They tell me that feeling is precious.
It is the engine that starts
and maintains the flow of words,
a continuation of thought,
a romantic escapade of data
that wanders off its proper path
into the passion of the abstract,
the place where poets live
and the place where I belong,
the new me that we both built up.