A poem must have an effortless birth
Like a swing of a thought propelled
From the right, forwards into existence
Like the reverberation of a swing
Into the shoulder and maybe as deep as the trunk
That never intended more than a move
To circle the small world
We can reach with our breath and our love.
A poem is but the mirror of our world
The very inside looking out
Trying to harmonize to yin with the yang
The love with the hate
The sound and the light
The shore and the wave
The I with the us
In the voice of a possible song.
A poem is but the force
With which we are trying to change
The presence into a luminous future
Or really it is
Whatever you want to make of it
My dear- if you would be kind
To just start and write.
