Why do poets write
and like artists see wonder
where others don’t?
Where does all this come from
and where does it go?
And how much can the mind
and soul take,
if kept inside?
How much room is there,
it seems:
there’s always room for more.
I write, I paint,
because “it’s there”
and fighting to get out.
Irritable and crabby
if the world interrupts
my craft.
Maybe I’d burst if the
words and scenes
piled up inside
my heart and soul
and couldn’t get out.
It seems there are always more
waiting to fill the space,
always room for more.
New to the wonders of
I’m learning the ways
that poets think,
and put the words down,
and those forms
are “there” now,
and fighting
to come to the surface
and on to paper or
Just To Be There
in the flesh.
to be born in the world
of words thought
and gathered.
The mind works in curious
writing other thoughts,
that were the same
earlier in the day.
Like love.
Where there is love,
the heart and soul expand,
there is always room for more
The mind is the same…
the more thoughts,
or serious.
Meaningful or not:
Where there are words,
more appear and expand,
and crave for attention,
and there’s always room for more.