Sometimes I bravely call myself a poet
who writes a short poem
with a long view.
I always keep my stillness,
encouraged by my own placidity,
allowing me to ignore the erratic fluttering
of an awakened heart,
always fearing things unknown;
no doubt I was sometimes a fool.
Shall I write a poem of love and passion?
Shall I write a poem of pain and healing?
Shall I write a poem of laughter?
Yes, I could.
I came into the world of poetry
when I had nowhere else to go.
I armed myself with a backpack
filled with webbed emotions
and dreams of a forever-sunlight world,
thoughts of peace and passion.
I shared those dreams with all
who would listen.
At times I was overwhelmed,
but I never let go of my dreams.
Today I sit facing a glowing screen
and watch true poets work,
I read words that far surpass
my own feeble verse.
I feel the love, the excitement,
the pain, and emotions that ring
I embrace the hearts and souls
of special ones.
And yet…like Maya,
At times I feel like a ragged hobo,
a fallen star
who clings to the edge of the
My heart is restless,
and I write.