I canoe hard,
Up churning currents of poetry.
Like a summer camper on a river,
Or a spliff, rolled poorly.
The river of poetry.
Not the words of publications
but the words of public vocation.
These waters are hazardous to your health.
Or unaccustomed wealth.
They bring about sunshine,
Speak of humanity.
Whisper- unspoken calamity.
The reader may assume
Fiction is nonfiction.
The one Blunder.
Like saying “It’s going to pour”,
Because of thunder.
Don’t work too hard
For these words of poetry.
Let them fall from your lips.
The river is calm and it drifts.
Like the Mooring of a hundred rocking ships.
Don’t sink your ideas.
Worrying of antecedent manuscripts,
Or that genius word.
All words are genius.
A simple combination of ink absorbed paper.
An eclipse one can view-
Without those damned glasses.
The little details that have fallen through the cracks.
Collected and wrapped, so they may stack.
Pious to one’s self
Upon a bookshelf.