Quick! Call the poetic constabulary
I'm mincing words about my vocabulary
Help! I'm drowning in my thesaurus
evidence that i'm merely a brontosaurus

Listen up to my Greek chorus:
"Such silly word play should place her in poem prison
a ponderous place from which few have risen
Locked in the cell, losing her sense
consequence of writing with no poetic license"

Writing on with no reason or rhyme
just doing my poetic time
iambic meters bite me in the ****
trying to force me out of my sonnetic rut

stumbling on ideas most trite
all the pitfalls of making the choice to write

put on your internet mittens
'cause, Baby, it's cold out there
in spite of the millions of kittens
there's a definite chill in the air

i may never read what you've written
it's not that i don't love your wares,
i'm only eternally smitten
by outdoors, green trees, and fresh air

so keep writing, Baby, go faster
it's writing that makes writing great
if you stop it would be a disaster
so stick it, you know, it's your fate

My angels have abandoned me this morning
their tarnished halos scattered 'round my bed
i wish they'd given me some sort of warning
before rushing off where they used to fear to tread

This will change the way I go about my day
instead of drinking  coffee, i'll have gin
i'll sit sipping, wondering if i may
invent some kind of new salubrious sin

With luck they will return to me tomorrow
their shabby robes in colors of contrite
i'd wash their feet to cleanse them of their sorrow
kiss each toe, resist the urge to bite

Dear angels, you have given me this song,
don't wander far from places you belong!

and then it occurred to me
mystics aren't mystical at all
Mystery lies in the mundane,
a dripping faucet of wonders!

Birds can fly!

Water falls from the sky!

Nourishment springs from the ground!

in the glass i see myself
the world spins, yet i stay on

your hand reaches out for mine
as we walk down the marvelous road

      These spiritual window-shoppers,
      who idly ask, 'How much is that?' Oh, I'm just looking.
      They handle a hundred items and put them down,
      shadows with no capital.

       What is spent is love and two eyes wet with weeping.
      But these walk into a shop,
      and their whole lives pass suddenly in that moment,
      in that shop.

       Where did you go? "Nowhere."
      What did you have to eat? "Nothing much."

       Even if you don't know what you want,
      buy something, to be part of the exchanging flow.

       Start a huge, foolish project,
      like Noah.

       It makes absolutely no difference
      what people think of you.

It's hard to write
when cat sits on the page
and herds of wild elephants
stomp over in a rage

The magic carpet beckons
let's step on for a ride
fly across the wide blue sky
like kestrels we will glide

I didn't plan to write this
I just let it write me
When words won't flow may
as well go on a rash exotic spree