What is a poet?
A rhymer of words?
Or a mincer of the same?
Expressing what is? What was? What should be?
Perhaps, although I prefer the raw version.
Yes, the raw version, which is, of course, the freshest.
Whatever else follows after isn’t the freshest, although it should be, logically.
I prefer this!
He stops, amid the last chew of his most delicious spaghetti dinner, realizing…he has suddenly, finally, figured it all out, his meaning to life, his purpose for living!!! He takes a huge gasp of inspiration, chokes on the noodles…and dies.
Midsummer night, the birds alight….
Sunset’s now, I don’t know how, to express the thoughts yet so bright
The fields lay fallow but now aren’t shallow, they burst with life and little strife
Seedlings gone, now tall and strong, the sunflower leans and faces high
Cricket’s groan, upon their stones, frog’s all follow into the shallow
Bright moon waning, after such a showing
Too little that we’ll ever know
Not to matter, tomorrow is another day, that I say with crickets groaning, the frogs a croaking almost soaking in this and that and the other thing, another day for us to sing!