Poetry is like a dessert; steamy words are so delish.
They make my world an affair. Poetry is like his kiss.
I can eat my poetry for lunch, can drink it when I awake,
and when I sit to dine, for supper, it’s my cake.
Insistent in my poetry, are themes of love and life,
of nature and inner peace, I gorge on it with delight.
Creativity flows like water, bubbling foams into verse.
A drink from just a poem quite satisfies my thirst.
Poems condense my world like soup with broth skimmed off
leaving the best to the end – meaty chunks of philosophe.
So poetry actually feeds me. I write in place of meals.
And, because I forget to eat, I need no dietary deals.
My poems must actually guide; I have no map for future,
so follow where instinct leads – of old habits, I’m a creature.
My poems must actually talk; while writing, I hear only ‘her’—
that ‘child’ within who speaks the truth with incite as it were.
Yes, because poetry is nutritious and feeds my needs so well,
the harvested rhythmic smorgasbord’s my legacy, do tell.
