What Poetry Is

with edgy attitude
the blank page
(startling white)
looks up at me with
puppy dog eyes
begging for a treat:

“Throw me a word!”
it demands—
just one to get
the train out of the station

while nothing comes to mind
in my early slumberous fog
I know that soon
the words will arrive
to dance their mindless jig
an aura of fushica
cloudless  sunrise

poems are so easily lost
especially ones
so many gone by the wayside
during my ephemeral time
on this spinning
celestial sphere

I cannot remember
all the poems
I scribbled on napkins
at Denny’s, 3 a.m.
feet soggy from
tramping the berms
of piled snow
running from mania

trying to at least

nor do I recall
the myriad moments
I stole at work to
drink the museful marrow
a few minutes here
a few minutes there
spent dictating profundities
while toiling for the man
slow hour by slow hour
tick tock
waiting for the luxury of time
to behold quietude

nor can I look back
and discern the exact moment
I forsook labor pains
to jot down
the very meaning
of life
crafting a masterpiece
before welcoming
a small human into
my   burning arms

a scratch piece of paper
lost to history in
a hospital trash can

when you’re a poet
inspiration catches you
by surprise at every turn
barraging you from all sides
biscuits and gravy
giving birth
doesn’t matter how subtle and superfluous
or       ardent      and             sage
everything                        matters

when you’re a poet
every rainbow contains
a              message

you feel compelled to
translate it into words
carefully curated
to be carefully tucked away
in stone crevices
of lonesome hearts

when you’re a poet
everything is
moist and peaty mulch
to be tilled
for the trees in your
mind           garden

years from now you can sit back
and admire the dynasty
of leafy serenity
you once planted in the
tough    clay    ground
and your suspicion will
be           vindicated

from the rainstorm
buds blossom
into turquoise stars
to soothe and set free
forlorn souls
previously in chains

yours       included


(c) 2018