people express astonishment upon reading my poems
wondering how it is that i write … declaring poetry too difficult for them
i don’t know, i have to reply
yes, i think about it
but it’s the way i think almost all the time
i’ll look out the window and a poem
will start building itself in my mind
fragment by fragment
one half-thought at a time
life and love and death and eternity come welling forth
forming themselves into words and sentences
how am i to explain this?
only by writing about it is it truly expressed
and perhaps not even then
a poem lives inside of me
sometimes creeping like a glacier
meandering like a lazy stream
or exploding like a geyser
can this possibly make sense to one who doesn’t feel it?
when the muse strikes and the spirit comes upon me …
i can’t help but release the poem inside
very nice