Every morning
I arise a different
Poet than the one I
Fell asleep as.

I sat (as I do when I don't need to stand)
By the river Vorma, a twenty minute forest walk
From my home farm.

Bukowski sat with me, speaking of how even
The best books in the world are
Merely sawdust.

I watched the sun via the water go from bright,
Innocent yellow to dark, sensual shades of
All sorts of blood,

Blushing with its whole self, then withdrawing
Beyond the rippled mirror image of its
Completely unjustified shame.

I lost my reading light, folded Charlie up and
Sat with my arms across my knees, watching
Fish jump on unsuspecting dinner insects,

Tossed the book in the water, and sighed.
The whole scene was just too perfect
Not to.

The poems doesn't speak to you.
It sings, it whispers, it screams.

The poem isn't going anywhere.
It dances; glides or crawls.

The poem isn't written.
It is cried, bled or shivered onto

Paper. The poem doesn't care.
It's just there. Where it belongs.

It doesn't mind or like.
It loves, adores or despises from its

Soul. The poems isn't created.
It blesses the poet with its birth.

you leave me
alone.....
       to contemplate

and
all i can do
is
..........think of you

time apart
is ......
           anticipation
of
when we.......
can next
             be together....

they wait for godot....
                 i long for you....
this love
          so  unexpected
so....new
          
   my prayer......
                i hope  
we... possess...the stamina
to see it through.

I need a poem
Writer's block is killing me
Woah I found a grape

Bloodlust is all I see.
These droplets, like cranberry constellations,
dotting my bibliography.

I am nobody's fool,
yet you've bamboozled me.
A walking contradiction.

Demented or balanced,
I no longer know.
Your bloodlust concerns me.