Disciples are the family you create

I’ve bountiful friends if all my written creations are counted

those being my emerging thoughts dappled with blinding truth

each will endure somewhere out in the vast cosmos

even though I will someday take my bodily leave


Call me a dabbler penning primarily a capella

unsure of who or what germinated these thoughts

am I just picking word mobiles out of the air?

or existentially churning over my existence?


I consider my scribblings actually more my disciples

yes, I’m praying for greater loyalty than Jesus received

way past 12, they keep their own emergence time

good company they are although I’ve bid a few farewell


No, I cannot healthy up the lamed and twisted

even if the common cur can be taught to heel

however, water to wine stumps our four-legged friends

hey, so what if I’m not the next word messiah?


It’s true I once goosed Mona Lisa just to see her smile

it happened in church, in the inner sanctum to be specific

provoking “you shat on the Golden Rule, are you settling for silver?”

I blasphemied, “you wanna be on the comp list for heaven?”


Alas, faith, hope and charity used to mean a lot to me

but they broke it off to consort with a twangy published poet

I left to feed the hungry at the sea of Fleur-de-Lis

they raved that my words were nutritious, not so much the story line


Spoken or sung post written creation

a stampede of irresistibly arranged words

absent a solitary misplaced syllable

producing a five alarm life spark

a detonation of endorphins

capable of bursting the human heart

while dizzying the homo sapien brain

resulting in a gravity nullified unshackling

buoyant glee and ultimately inspiration.

Writing will be the life and death of you

Writing and I communicate in on-again, off-again partnership

head, heart, lexicon involved in the oddest of threesomes

intent: my truth,  however shrouded in hieroglyphics

eerily similar to the dissonance of betrothals at brothels


Be it orthodox, multi-interpretational or indecipherable

with art or anything else, when is less more and more less?

or enough enough, for fulfillment, mere satiation or slighter?

the muse impossible to satisfy, often barely romanceable


Daveed says everybody has one murder in themselves

I call myself a hunter, a mere stalker of words

search, then sight, followed by aim and fire

is it a flesh wound, a hollow miss or inspiring fulfillment?


Being a lazy poet with a sloth-like indolence

“a minimalist” as I often spout with elan

a subdued pilgrim of the single word poem

be it ever elusive, not even half a haiku


Of no known western habitat

neither of dictionary nor thesaurus

a free agent of precious short scribbling

yet capable of intimacy with seekers

Poetic Questions, and Possibly Some Answers

“Poetry is in” chirped my neighbor

alluding to the latest nova burst iteration of wordists

“So were bell bottoms once” I responded

cattily striking my well practiced perpetually penniless pouty poet pose


For isn’t the common calling of the poet’s creed to be out?

while illuminating the invisible and its overlooked inverse

and yes, we know when the truth of our targets has been pricked

regardless of simultaneously superfluous and nutritious validation from others


Do not label the poetic process a struggle

blood is absent, sweat generally sparse, although tears may present (for seasoning)

when a creation becomes infinite or even close enough

the miraculous rush of the birth itself cannot be equaled


What crosses the line of mushing poetry into commodity?

as creativity is art, not to be rated or ranked

appreciated or not, certainly