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A Dozen Reasons Why I Wrtie Poetry.

Updated on January 10, 2010


(1.)-  I take my rest

         and awaken

         with much delight

         to the poetry of

         the sun and the moon,

         a couplet of breathtaking beauty,

         Their prismatic and soft

         luminescent colors astound me.

(2.)-  Thus I wallow in

         the stink of ink, 

         and press tickets

         to enlightenment, 

         aboard ink-jets that

         carry my work worldwide,

         I weld pens to my fingers

         that torque open my soul,

         and grind pencils into nubs,

         as a cure for my lead-aches.

(3.)-  I am innundated by art,

         I live in a studio where

         I bask in palettes,

         that hold pigments of

         my imagination splashed

         in strokes of inspiration

         across thirsty canvas.

(4.)-  I devour poetry daily,

         and digest it for readers,

         in finger thick sandwiches

         of paper bound.

         I read these tomes in

         coffeehouses and cafes,

         as lattes are suckled

         along with the meat of my work.

(5.)-  My other son who is-

         the warmest spot in my life

         moves me to create a lasting legacy,

         of all the magnificence our world holds,

         plus words of wisdom to shed light

         on the madness he will face 

         in his years to come.

(6.)-  I have never known love

        without the sweet accompaniment

        of songs of tribute to the

        blessing of womanhood.

        There are few words to

        truly pay homage to the

        splendor of kisses shared,

        the jig-saw joy of ten fingers joined,

        and the passion of flesh becoming one.

(7.)- I carry a micro-cassette everywhere

        to capture fleeting thoughts

        that slip wraith-like into

        the temple of my cranium,

        I worship their essence

        and write prayers to them daily.

(8.)- Flowers call me to expound

       on their fragile existence,

       painting vibrant verbs

       and bold adjectives in

       tulip reds and daffodil yellows.

(9.)- War wounds me to the core,

        and I weep in soft blue dirges

        that chronicle all that we've lost

        due to the insanity of hate.

(10.)- My head is a sieve,

          a sponge for the muses,

          soaking up what's lyrical

          in a literal pool. 

          It grows heavy when I

          fail to squeeze out

          its seemingly endless bounty.

(11,)- I hope to grow old

          and spend my halcyon days,

          in a wheelchair reflecting

          on all I was granted,

          A trembling gray head,

          bent over scratch pads

          pale skin wrought with psoriasis,

          as I race to finish the perfect poem,

          before the rhythms of my life cease.

(12.)- I am at over 4,000 poems,

          and still my restless heart pursues 

          all of the pondering I have left untouched.

          I care little for the fortune and fame

          some acquire in their pursuit of the word.

         Just to have had the opportunity

          to express,and touch others lives

          with emotions  deeply pressed, 

          is amply rewarding enough for me.





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