Genes are our genies
Their pool is our species,
Their goal is existence,
Their genius survival,
Not always congenial.
A Children's Tale
Once upon a time
There was a little boy called Happy Sam
The ideal audience size for a poet is one.
Direct from me to you. No watchers.
Whispering together in the privacy of our minds.
When poems are performed therefore
Laying down my book I turned to thought
And thought can be a poor companion,
A gullible electric ghost
Hiding in a thunderstorm,
They said “that can’t be a poem
For it has neither rhyme nor rhythm”
The French and Japanese pass laws
To try to keep words out
While wanton English tempts words in
Like some old hooker on History Street.
Freed from focus thoughts slide by
A swift and dark flowing river
White waters eddies and whirlpools
A poet plucks treasures from the stream