Yesterday I read some poems,
to see if they'd rub off
on me, the way
Rumi loves his beloved,
Mary O. dwells within mystery
of people, nature, earth,
Pablo N.'s red pen bleeds
over all he sees,
giving everything merit -
his loves, his politics, his artichoke.
To him, even a speck deserves an ode.
I read on-line lines of poet friends
who serve a feast of words, I try to eat,
to ingest, digest, devour with my hungry teeth,
hoping I, perhaps some day, be more like them.
Like a baby snail, I follow.
Unwilling to look too far
towards any destination, lest I get lost
in futility of wandering, wondering
of an arrival.
My poetic journey started with a bang,
an explosion of words, desires, hopes, love
for my poetic development.
But evolution is sometimes undetectable,
things seem unchanged.
As a poet, if I were earth,
dinosaurs would still roam, unsuspecting.
As a poet, I long for my new universe,
while I wait
for my own ice age.
(Submitted to Dverse Poets.)