On Poetry

I was raised by wolves

Invisible elephants
In the living room

I didn't have a Harvey
Of my own

I had words
I had songs

Those were the gift
The songs and the words

Some feelings were only addressed
In music

Words were play
I loved comics
As soon as I could understand them

My mother knew verse after verse
Of songs

My father played and sang
Read Chaucer in Middle English
As a bedtime story

They each sang a song
To the newly engaged

Ironic, acknowledging the dark side
Of marriage

Wish I was single again

When I was single
My shoes they did squeak
Now I am married, lord,
My shoes they do leak
Don't you wish you were a single girl again

When I was single
My pockets did jingle
Wish I was single again

When things were bad
There was refuge
Songs and books and words

If I stored enough words in my head
I could be alone


And still play

he thinks poets write for money
it hurts so much it's just damn funny
he isn't dumb
have some rum
art will touch you someday honey

I wake early before it's light
the deep well opens in the night
pain is an ocean
depths in motion
a new volcano borne to light

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