Creation is so hard, not even the ease of a whole
Life wasted could give enough pleasure to
Cover up the pain what has to be put into it.

Creation is not for the fine-fueled,
Ones, who play their world goal by goal,
Fight their void deal by deal.

Creation means to always leave enough room
To let them all be destroyed and breathe again.
Single-mindedly be done, and redone, and redone.

An artful liar, his words beautifully cheat all,
speaks nonsense any one can believe
with  consummate flair, sees the essence without effort,
it fits well in metaphors and imageries galore,
he has wings to fly anywhere with ease, see things up close.
The  wind of imagination he blows makes waves,
he is taken to  ecstatic heights riding on  its crest,
yet he doesn't accept, when they call him a poet,
"Just at those moments I am inspired" he says"call me a poet,
not all the time I am one, being a poet is not a profession
but an attribute others bestow on one, out of appreciation"

I know I am not much of a poet myself
I just love to describe what I see
what touches my heart, what leaps to mind.

When the words do not come out quite right
and the rhythm is a bit off-key
I don' t get my knickers in the twixt

Poetry is not about the best masterpiece
but about letting my words flow like a river
allowing the pen to scribble all over a blank page

Here’s where poems come to die

A child sits alone,
But isn’t really alone,

His mind fires colors and shapes
Into all empty, black spaces
He hears the voice of his best friend, Henry,
They’ve known each other for two minutes

The child knows his story,
How he came from the same place
that the fairytales do.

The child’s heart is open.
The child’s innocence creates
And Henry smiles, his red
hair a strange color with no name.

And they laugh,
The child watches a small horse
Graze in the tall grasses of the prairie
Henry laughs because he’s always been ticklish
Right under his arms.

They whisper about their adventures
How Henry saved the child from
Oblivion.
From the job of constantly pitting peaches

From the centipede as it marched
To a war beat that only Henry and
The child can hear.

Years later, the boy doesn’t know
Henry.  
And he doesn’t know he ever did.
That was beat out of him
After he stole his first pack of chewing gum.
And looked at his first *******.
This is where poems come to die.

El hombre, en el sueño y en la vigilia, consideraba las respuestas de sus fantasmas, no se dejaba embaucar por los impostores, adivinaba en ciertas perplejidades una inteligencia creciente. Buscaba una alma que mereciera participar en el universo.