The words are a playground,
no bell to call me in.
And wander I must
past fences, over grasses verdant
finding trees that take words
and split them like branches.
I eat the apples
leaving some of me behind along the way.
I am a constant poet.

If every morning that began with words in mind prompted a new poem, then I'd be a constant poet.  Like this morning, would have been a bit about gerunds and how you just shouldn't gerundize some nouns because it isn't right.  And then some are right but not because the connotation of the word or context remains the same.  Take pan and paning, for example.  One is breakfast and the other in film.  But anyway, if I'm allowed to not make sense often then perhaps I am a constant poet.  I asked the question, "Why is the expression take a ****?  Taking isn't what we do..." Perhaps the language affords us  many luxuries of interpretation that forgive literal correctness and rules.  Like writing a paragraph of prose for Hello Poetry.  But maybe we are here because we question the limits and take the license and more.  The words become a playground, not a chore.  Yes that's it!  My morning meandering leads to a single poetic thought.

The words are a playground,
no bell to call me in.
And wander I must
past fences, over grasses verdant
finding trees that take words
and split them like branches.
I eat the apples
leaving some of me behind along the way.
I am a constant poet.

Can the poet make you dance?
She could put you in a trance
with pretty words
like pirouette or waltz.
If you should start to shiver
when toes and fingers quiver
most assuredly it isn't
all her fault.
Just like music from a player
the rhythm starts to layer
but not unless you
choose to turn it loud.
And then we see you choke,
you poem-loving bloke.
Just being here we've
found your fancy out!

that night I read your note
your words
your song
and knew it was the butterfly
still chasing the raven;
who, with her heart caught in his mouth
sees the ground and fears the fall
from his lonely perch;
so drops the heart she gave to him
and doesn't even see it
fallen;
there's her body
but out of reach, this heart
cannot be joined with her again
and ravens always crush what they catch.
the heart is his forever...
there under stars
and in our eyes,
you held me close and
kissed my eyes,
"I'm ready."
without demand I hoped;
loving my raven free,
remembering
raven drops these hearts
when they taste of fear.
but he forgets
and takes hers, new again
and this could go forever...

or do you?
you can feel it
when it fills you
and then it spills you
on a page
like life over-run
with nowhere to go
and then it's done.
look down and see
words arranged like
turmoil, a mess.
do I dare pass it on
or even read it?
some do.
they're poets.

my dad would say,
I was found under a rock.
worse things have happened.
there's life down there
we forget to see,
important work
to us all.
so maybe I count all the more
because of my
*****
creepy
crawly
grunge-eating
tiny
wet
ugly
crowded
fight­-for-survival
origin.
I'd say
I came to life
prepared.