Be A Poet
Be a poet. Be that person
who dreams at the bed’s edge.
Be that light between night
and dawn. Between the letters
that pause. Sit below w’s stems. Be
as quiet as dancing alone or be as loud
Quiet days give way
to summer’s heat. And thunder.
Roll toward the apple display.
Where passion burned through her shirt.
Every cell of her body.
Saw off branches. Steer the ship alone.
Release, and joy, and lovely.
The bowl is shallow, the soup barely broth.
Not telling our truths is holding our breath,
leaving a trail of who we are.
Underneath agitation, the treasure.
We do not know the colors of honest.
We give into body and busy.
Reject the air that carries the words.
There are those storytellers.
That person behind the wall,
see yourself from above.
Picasso says artists see like a child.
Word manipulation and story.
The gruel and grit of the moment.
I don’t get cream in my coffee,
energy or fragrance.
Smell the mess, the arrogance.
Like rain and electricity,
the colder, darker days.
Where do you dream now?