What makes a poet ?
That was my thought
I mulled it over and
Came up with these oughts :

Late nights with
coffee , tea or beer
Perhaps harder stuff
Whiskey , smoke or gin clear

And the struggles and pain
as the birth is exclaimed
Blood , sweat and tears
Falling as hard as ice on rain

Confessionals made
As black on white page
Love , death , fears
Even extreme rage

One who struggles
with the a's and the's
Should one even use
The apostrophe

One who's words
Gel by the witching hour
Words full of promise  
Warnings so dour

But perhaps greatest of all
Before even the start
One must have
a true poet's heart

Sitting on my porch in the early morning
An Inca dove flew to a ledge where
A succulent had just been watered.
She sipped from the edge of the ***,
Cocking an eye at me occasionally.
After she'd had her fill, she didn't fly away,
But looked at me with curiosity.
What a cumbersome ugly creature she probably thought... large. Pale. Bound to the ground like a stone...

But why do we antromorphize the thoughts of wild things? Who knows their
Minds? Only God.

But I like to think that I had a connection with that Inca dove. She didn't fly away for a long time. But peered at me with such a lively interest. She wasn't even afraid as I got up to go back inside. Brave and beautiful are the untamed. Many would say God gave me a chance to look at her.
I'd say God gave her a chance to look at me.


SoulSurvivor
(C) 6/2/2016

He protects his phone
but not his ***.
Sitting on a cherry
withered-wood,
it's good to remember
that in December,
he waited for this
tired world, to pass
him by, for his mother
to 'please come home.'

Casper, undercut with curls on top,
plays a greyed banjo while wearing
the green-chestnut flannel his dad
wore before he disappeared into
vermilion sky, only remembered
with lullabies from a hopeful mom
that smelled like Pall-Malls and
factory-soaked-heartbreak.

White, chiseled with skeleton intention,
he sips from within himself,
hoping to harness new direction.