Wednesday, April 20, 2016


as the poet reads,
all i can think of is flowers.

she reads like she is singing –
her voice drops and then lifts,
she gestures wide with her arms,
hands aflutter.

she obviously loves words.
she must enjoy rolling them around in her mouth,
trying them on for size,
utility, impact.

i once dated a poet…
it did not go well.
i fell in love with how she put words together,
and misread their sharpness
(recognized myself in her
poetry twenty years later).

that’s why i do not trust poets.
they always expect words to do more than their fair share,
they use them to wear down your will,
to encircle you and
mount your defenses.

they are sorcerers
conjuring fantasies and promises,
cajoling us to see more than the words
and yet the words elusive;
they place us in chains
and chained to possible meanings,
all our hopes and dreams
held in their busy little hands,
offering us these bouquets.