why a poet?
because a poet
hears the words
which sing the
purest harmonies
because a poet
paints their portraits
in pastels
of phrases
because a poet
dances their agonies
into leaps of faith
and pirouettes
of passion
because a poet
sees
the beauty
in the commonplace
and captures
the moment
in a snapshot
of ink and white
because a bloodless world
cuts itself
a thousand times

and the poet bleeds

Hey! How are ya?

Yeah...
see those pretty pictures on the front of the card?
I've not really been there!
I've never really left my front yard
I've not pictured Winter
I've never been cold
I may have once been abused
and the story never got told
Buf it was a long time ago
and so the journeys ending

Pictures on a Postcard
can be so telling

Here I go again my friends
on a journey fraught with fear
I promise to send
a postcard now and then
with a picture
and a scribbled
*Wish you were here

as you rise, the East
awakes at dawn, my night time
spawns new horizons

she leaves
everything
on a page,
all her sorrow,
her love
and her rage,
and I truly believe
she will write
herself free
of the jailers
who fastened
her cage.

My green fingered great uncle Maurice
ran away with a stripper called Doris
she takes off her clothes
wherever she goes
and she's got ***** hair like a forest.