they come too easy, they come too cheap,
each sparkle on my city's sidewalks,
each glistening preserved, retrieved,
lifted to my *****, wallet tucked~away,
treasure for safekeeping, slow pleasured contemplation
could not fail to find them,
for all standout in four dimensionality,
some are long, some are deep, some are wide,
yet all possess speaking souls,
to leave unattended, unheard, an act of criminality
years needed for the making,
moments only for the transcribing,
each a black ruby, or a street sand pearl,
none more valuable than another,
each unique, each precious, differently
some escape, shed their earthbound chains,
float atmospherically for keen eyes to grasp,
need a single finger to twirl, instill within,
they come too easy, come too cheap,
yet each poem written, more costly than the next
PostScript:
I awoke at 4:45 am. The title of the poem was my waking thought. Fifteen minutes later this work was done. I write too frequently and have come to believe, that because they come to easy, come to "cheap," they are somehow deemed less valuable, and are less popular, than in early days. But once conceived, once retrieved, they demand a hearing, a sharing like a newborn babe, they neeed their bottom slapped, to be created, posted in order to breathe and let the reader decide, if they are as. pleasurable and unique, as they are to me...
5:30am Saturday April 12, 2014
