I woke today, the outside’s gray,
my room’s cold and this story’s old.
Hunger persists from the night,
yet in this journal I must daily write.
A poet am I until I die,
often to cry, to always ask why.
With bloodshot eyes and inky hands,
words conjured from dreamy lands.
Time, you see, wears heavy on me.
In verse I live, it’s all I’ve to give.
The past is scribed, legends to follow.
The future fore, the now I borrow.
This present I speak, not for the weak.
But persist I must and forgo disgust.
Yesterday’s full of virtue and sins,
tomorrows unknown but today begins.
A capsule of one of a life soon done,
this journal I will, my time’s now still.
And if my time’s now relevant,
this treasure to you I gladly present.
The universe dark when afraid,
atoms pulse and bonds made.
The voice within will rise and fall,
a poet’s obsession is defining all.
Heartbeats heard of passerby,
all’s to feel or question why.
Understood or criticized,
words writ, spoken or surmised.
Eye’s see truth and tell no lies,
somewhere, always are bright blue skies.
To write of life is to ponder death.
To be loved is sharing breath.
Sunrise’s heard, they paint with rain.
They feel joy and others pain.
They fall in love with the greatest of ease.
They sculpt our dreams as they please.
Sunsets beckon their stars to shine.
Heartbreaks linger, the rush divine.
Past souls tread to futures new.
Their blood’s read erasing the blue.
Their time shared with all, but few.
Though recounting seconds is what poets do.
In a poet’s eyes future’s seen.
And the hands of time will pen.
Your kiss inspires another poem.
It’s not how but when.
So it’s time for another tomorrow poem,
because I’ll to see you then.
Our evening will be the most delightful.
Until we meet again.
If a painter I to be,
filling life with discovery,
penning sonnets with oceans green,
there to paint an endless sea.
Or if an explorer I am to be,
quills soaring high and free,
dancing in fields of clover green,
there to ponder what yet to foresee.
Perhaps a poet I to be,
painting rainbows in hues of glee,
paper mountains yet printing green,
there stars aglow gaze back at me.
But a simple man confused I be,
feeling love am I as you can see,
gazing endlessly into eyes of green,
there my heart knows for her I be.
What has limbs and roots,
trunks of sap, never alike?
Poets and their trees