Poets are different,

Is all you have to write,Then you’ll be cleansed,Of all offense,And Life will feel alright.

To the tree, with crown greenery to spareTo the sea who’s white crest, becomes unbolted‘Good Morning’!To the espresso, ‘el cafe” that only,The bravest hearts, should ever dare.And I look for you all over and can’t find you!And a desolated feeling grips the air,And I desperately look out the teary windowWith dew falling from my eyes…

A crumb of bread that has fallen,And is bigger than herself,To the vast, infinite Universe,Whose hidden meaning, so far,Has been more or less a guess.Who are we to destroy, plunder?Things, we surely did not make,We, who are but dirt and thunder,Yet, still think, we are so great,We should be quite a bit humbler,And respect each…

It is more than the words,The poet speaks,It is a whole world to be shared,As emotion suddenly peaks.

Poetry, logicallyHas its placeBecause,How can wordsHave feelings,Touch ceilingsImages,Come to lifeWords give healingLove become alive,And sometimes even,Words be filledWith spiritual,Grace?Is not then,The Absurd,Something, we allShould, spiritually,Embrace?

Unforgettable rose,You forever want to keep,I look not to the pastNor live, the presentFor without you,All I do is weep.