serendipity

as a poet you must live

by your own terms

write poems

not by instruction

boxed in a beige classroom

but in the open air

whether urban or rural

 

as a poet you must breathe

hard before inspiration arrives

but it cannot be forced

a sign must come

most likely as a familiar

bird who lands before you

and tilts its little dinosaur head

questioning your intent

because the right words

won’t come unless you mean them

 

as a poet you must rest

easy after a productive day

even if only a handful

of lines were birthed

even if it seemed

like serendipity

slipped away

Just Another Requiem

A thrush picks at plastic

as chemicals cement both ends of beak.

 

The flutter of wings travel past sound

not faster, making gentle things

 

in the mind behind and beyond

machines speeding down the street.

 

An unassuming bird leveled

by artificial friction.

 

Maybe their end already went,

and this is just another requiem.

Accepting Desolation

If the animal I am

were all I ever was

then I’d be comforted

by the smallest of

things, and my worries

would evaporate at

the stroke of my ear.

 

Instead I take shelter

from more than just

the wind, myself,

other people, this

place could be silent.

 

My grave, a foreign

home, death is my master

and I a disloyal slave.