The words are a playground,
no bell to call me in.
And wander I must
past fences, over grasses verdant
finding trees that take words
and split them like branches.
I eat the apples
leaving some of me behind along the way.
I am a constant poet.
If every morning that began with words in mind prompted a new poem, then I'd be a constant poet. Like this morning, would have been a bit about gerunds and how you just shouldn't gerundize some nouns because it isn't right. And then some are right but not because the connotation of the word or context remains the same. Take pan and paning, for example. One is breakfast and the other in film. But anyway, if I'm allowed to not make sense often then perhaps I am a constant poet. I asked the question, "Why is the expression take a ****? Taking isn't what we do..." Perhaps the language affords us many luxuries of interpretation that forgive literal correctness and rules. Like writing a paragraph of prose for Hello Poetry. But maybe we are here because we question the limits and take the license and more. The words become a playground, not a chore. Yes that's it! My morning meandering leads to a single poetic thought.
The words are a playground,
no bell to call me in.
And wander I must
past fences, over grasses verdant
finding trees that take words
and split them like branches.
I eat the apples
leaving some of me behind along the way.
I am a constant poet.
Rambling. Nothing but a rambling. But I kinda like it.
Listen to Constant Poet, poem by Amy Hilton 4 #np on #SoundCloud
http://soundcloud.com/amy-hilton-4/constant-poet-poem