Sometimes when I set my pen to paper, I have no idea what will appear.

Swoops and swirls.

And backward twirls.

My mind has created once again.

skimming the feed of poetry
reading the works of poets
liking here and there
without ever a care
some of us rather copiously
we all have our favorites
but the poem is just the beginning
of the start with a spark

if you never look at the activity
you are missing the best part
it's the jam that turns me on
in comments short or long
continuing the song

so don't be offended
of the flame that's ignited
its all rather splendid
to fire the wordplay excited
it's not really a contest
but more of a sinuous ebb and flow
hoping for a laugh or looking to decompress
when you have a day that blows

he won't shut up
when he's around
he wants to write everything
keeps on formulating phrases
hallucinating
couches into flying carpets
swearing that he's seen
the ground from the sky

The Poet
we never know what he's doing -
turning black sheep
into heaven
he's stuck on the inside
looking out

The Poet
he won't shut up
but when I really need him
he's no where to be found

when he wants what
he wants
in these poems of his
I know I'll wind up
embarrassed humiliated and forlorn

The Poet
when he's around
he won't shut up
he keeps going on and on

And when he's gone
Silence.

I mean no drama
In my busy backbone stance
I laugh it off
But my sarcasm likes to dance

Words are free
They cost us nothing
We give them away
When we say something

So here are some words
That describe being friends
Put them in your pocket
And hold them within...

I hold no grudge
No resentment lingers
No vengeance is mine
No pointing of fingers

Bygones be bygones
Let us be one
Voice of reason
All said and done...