The poetic word is potent.
Like one hundred and seven proof
bourbon,
it makes me drunk.
Plenty of pages of prose
are distilled in
a single
stanza.
It is irresistible as
I swirl it in my mouth.
Sniff it.
Taste it.
Breathe it in.
I hold it up to the light
to peer into its soul.
With voracious appetite,
I invert its glass until
the
last
drip
slides
slowly
south
onto my silver
tongue.

The Poet says, “weeping,
may tarry for the night,
but joy comes with the morning.”

I look and see, their weeping.
Listening, I hear their cries.
I offer them hope after their storm,

'It is not for nought, this weeping.
And though it tarries beyond this night,
eternal joy comes with the mourning.'

With force my finger,
launches hardened type, pressing
ink into paper.

Pico font pleases
my wistful eye, but the "THWAK"
I hear is better.

With ink smudges and
type mistakes I'm reminded
that my life is real.

She lived her life with an immature desire.
Dancing and singing, her face lit a room.
But like a firecracker before that boom,
many often held their breath while by her.

I remember once, while near her line of fire,
I blushed, a boy of five, from her strong fume.
Her lips spewing forth in an obscene plume,
while she alone would not hear her deafening ire.

Then I’d relay the circumspect reply,
from a confused face speaking through this child,
as my mother lit a fresh cigarette.

Rewinding the tape with her careful eye,
she watched me imitate the words she’d riled,
never showing me any sign of regret.