I often always wonna write – oh yes!
But I have noticed something over years
Especially when I’m set with pen and paper here
The words never drop into my deep listening - my inner ears
Clouds of inspiration want to RAIN and I expect gushes
I anticipate rushes but get trickles.
And when I expect floods of words
I get drizzles for shower – lost to lust!
Writing about how Oceans are offsprings of little drops
Sons of mighty rivers;
And Jungles are children of tiny seeds -
Siblings to great forests
Just as Forefathers of ancient times are split seconds
We need to give heed to little beginnings
Pay attention to little things…
Thinking about how poetry is art
A poem is from the heart
Finest proses source from a deep hurt
As a poet, though I rise to heavens, I’m down to earth…
Dreaming I live where paradise birds sing on exotic trees
Bumble and honey bees flirt on fragrance flowers
Iced milkshake for oceans and assorted fruit juice for seas
Farm animals are already barbequed with hot sauce - yet roaming
Choice aphrodisiac nuts of all sorts as pebbles
Where clouds are colourful cotton candies
I find Alcohol when I dig a little in this pastry-like earth
Wine drops from the skies when it rains
Lakes are different soups with grilled fish so well spiced – yet swimming…
And pearls and gems and diamonds are stones
Where the only form of transport is our thoughts
Sun, moon, stars and seasons are at our 'anytime'...
If you read all that, by now you are asking, ‘So, what’s my aim?’
It’s so clear I have not said a thing!
I have struggled, stayed, starred and oh what a shame
And if you are wondering if all this is just a game
Sorry my dear, it’s simply this: the words never came!
by Paul Martins
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