For the Writer
I do not consider myself a poet. But I have had a couple of poems published recently. Does that make me a poet? Hell, maybe.
April is National Poetry Month. So I thought I’d jump into the ball game with two recent poems: “For the Writer” and “The Last of Winter.”
THE LAST OF WINTER
In dimmest light
the crow caws
angry that it snowed overnight,
a wet dusting, nearly rain, a kind of slush
The crow had other ideas, you see,
it had smelled spring,
a particular magic crow trick
But God had other plans
to mute the scent of the budding fertile ground
Birders say a crow holds a grudge,
it knows when it has been wronged,
God needs to be more careful about when
he lets it snow
***
FOR THE WRITER
Upon my mat
before a candle
incense drawn from flame
a woodpecker working
in the near pine
it’s rattle and crack
And on my desk
a typewriter sits
my journal at its side
pen before the page
In the mystic
I dream of magic
for if I saint
or devil’s best
I forever hammer
at the bark
in silent night
or morning moon
my beak against the wood
Photo: Nothing Ahead
Simple words, so much depth. I feel refreshed.