A poet has but a few
favourite things
they are much too busy
writing
dreaming
the day away
not wasting
a thought caught
on a day of play

A poet has a few favourite books
yet their imagination
is as good as any
read in their head
are heroes, hurts and hopes
flipping pages in their mind
a librium of poetry and notes

If asked, about their favourite hue
they have no colour but words
squeezing line
mixing rhyme
with feelings
close enough
paintings plainly heard
through strokes
spoken
without brush

A poets favourite things
are made up of life
and what life sings
pain, suffering, simple joys
a poets favourite toys
are madness
and the many things
they employ,
that brings birth
breath and wings
into the poetry we all enjoy

I found myself a seat at the table
among greens and violated vegetable
and I’m wondering if I am able
to stay calm and sit there stable
while staring into a Buddha bowl
searching for some peas in my soul

I’m looking down so hungry
the side dish appearing so angry
like that smashed green avocado
near the pile of mashed potato
and the cut and diced main dish
beside the chopped chives
and sliced spinach Quiche

These vegetarians are not so nice
beating the egg and whipping the rice
and this fruit punch I’m drinking
by dessert, has me thinking
they’re as aggressive, and more
violent and cruel, as a carnivore

Sitting in the library
among dusty books
You, behind a novel
throwing me ***** looks
peering over pages
finding your stare
back to your book
I take it you don’t care
I pull my tongue out
you roll your eyes
Is that a smile?
I wave…like I’m shooing flies
you turn away
I feel the red in me rise
I look at my watch…”oh my”
…how time flies
leaving this engagement
I tuck in my chair
locking eyes, we do a dance
…one last stare
If only you weren’t as pretty
and played so hard to forget
I would have made a move
and maybe we’d have met
We could have been love at first sight
…okay…sure, love at a glance
Oh well…Good bye
pleased to make your acquaintance