We need a quiet soul.
Without storms in a life.
They feelt always but they don't know.
Life is a big ocean.

in captain's logbook

What makes a poet ?
That was my thought
I mulled it over and
Came up with these oughts :

Late nights with
coffee , tea or beer
Perhaps harder stuff
Whiskey , smoke or gin clear

And the struggles and pain
as the birth is exclaimed
Blood , sweat and tears
Falling as hard as ice on rain

Confessionals made
As black on white page
Love , death , fears
Even extreme rage

One who struggles
with the a's and the's
Should one even use
The apostrophe

One who's words
Gel by the witching hour
Words full of promise  
Warnings so dour

But perhaps greatest of all
Before even the start
One must have
a true poet's heart

The shoes left behind.
Cursive last words swept away.
A poet’s last verse.

We may walk pathes
         That others have

Colleted singular
        Footsteps upon.



           But where we are,
            It's ****** green.


And nothing is pure,
           Beyond the first footsteps.



For after one, everyone






             Is just a mirage of purit.

And everything after is a mirage

                 Of wishful thinking...