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

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.