There is a tree that likes to sprout and grow from a well composted life. I have never claimed to be a poet. Come to think of it, I have never claimed to be a human. If I did...I AM HUMAN!!... you might have second thoughts. So the claim department is closed today. Nevertheless, here is one.
The Poetry
You wander
Longing for the shade
Kicking dirt-clods
That both wet and dry
Have made.
Your tree
Will not appear
Unless both wet and dry
Have molded, squeezed and baked
You dear.
Yes, you, clod
Kicked along the path
Pounded, trod on, smashed
To dust, then formed again
By tears, or fears, or bliss, or wrath.
You sigh...
You murmur, you moan, you curse
You have no choice, really
But to find the words
And rant for better or worse.
You roll your eyes,
Such bare-assed honesty
Happens in spite of you
In the dirt at the base
Of your poet tree.
***
Another Poet Tree, this one wrapped in bacon, I mean a mystery, which hails from the Scottish Poetry Library:
