Joyce Kilmer once observed
“I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree.”
To this I fully agree
But Joyce was short on their majesty.

We humans wish for treasures rare,
But in what we value we oft err
Gold and silver, scarce in Earth’s ground,
Yet across the Universe, they can be found

(A dream woven into a poem)

If I am happy, but only in a dream
Have I lived it, or only seen what living seems?
And if all things dissolve,
If all things die.
Why does something in me
still insist:

fly.

for that desire that takes you too high

but no wing ever breaks through blue sky,
on the cloud nine
when we find our all
before we fly
we must all fall

Been a while hasn’t it. We’ve not really been in touch. Yeah sure, you were right there, hiding in plain sight in all my devices. Mocking me all this time.

All this time, you stood silent, dignified. But not for you to beckon me. Or tempt me to come over and say hello. You’re too proud, too old, too stoic for that.

Yeah. You’ve seen writers come and go. From when you were first made of paper and stone. You’ll be there as the blinking cursor in some cyborg poet’s head.

What else can I do when all I can do is sit on this white screen and let it gush out from my veins.

I should quit
just give it all up
after all no one
likes a drunk;
too loud laughter
uncensored dreams
anything seems possible
with the haze of a drink

I should quit
throw in the towel
after all no one
likes a teetotaler around
their straight orange juice
gives too much clarity
to everyone’s sad hilarity