My Poetry
I write for poppies and paupers,
royalty, reindeer and rain,
snowflakes, seasons and diapers,
children and chokeholds and chains,
presents and passion and players,
for all that which hopes to obtain.
I write what I write for tomorrow,
for now, and for yesterday,
to honor the living, and dead,
whenever my quill has its way,
and when I am crippled by sorrow
or have very little to say,
I loose my ink like arrows
and scribe to the stars anyway.
It’s not a thing I choose to do
so much as a process forced on me,
as parchments fettered by competent glue
become a singular entity
and whether such claim seems true to you,
or not, I’ll write my poetry.
My poetry isn’t my poetry at all
any more than words themselves are mine,
so when the urge to do so nightly calls
I push a pen to share the inner rhymes
which lead me to the most exotic balls
and through the most elaborate chambers of time.
It’s a treasure lacking measure
that accompanies a poem
instigating a species of pleasure
so profound it’s clearly home,
and my poetry reminds me
there is time to banter of bones,
to debate eclectic notions
and to lionize ice cream cones!
I will write until I’ve faded
far beyond my will’s command
as a shadow serenaded
by the sun, is wrought on land.
I owe to all the nights and days,
to warlocks and electric trains
countless quatrains full of praise
to motivate and activate brains
and much remains for me to say
of ticks and sticks and horse’s manes,
weather vanes and bales of hay,
of corporate tricks like Jordan in Hanes,
of sparklers, tinsel, disarray -
of Love, and all Love’s illimitable names.
If I don’t write what’s in my skull
I don’t know who else will,
so I shall keep my notebooks full,
so long as notebooks exist to fill.
thanks for stopping by!
