A Dozen Reasons Why I Write Poetry.

(1.)-    I take my rest and awaken with much delight

        to the poetry of the sun and the moon,

        a couplet of breathtaking beauty,

        Their prismatic and soft

        luminescent colors astound me.

(2.)-    Thus I wallow in the stink of ink, 

        and press tickets to enlightenment,

        aboard ink-jets that carry my work worldwide,

        I weld pens to my fingers that torque open my soul,

        and grind pencils into nubs, as a cure for my lead-aches.

(3.)-    I am innundated by art, living in a studio where

        I bask in palettes, that hold pigments of

        my imagination splashed in strokes

        of inspiration across thirsty canvas.

(4.)-    I devour poetry daily, and digest it for readers,

        in finger thick sandwiches of paper bound.

        I read these tomes in coffeehouses and cafes,

        as lattes are suckled along with the meat of my work.

(5.)-    My other son who is the warmest spot in my life

        moves me to create a lasting legacy,

        of all the magnificence our world holds,

        plus words of wisdom to shed light

        on the madness he will face in his years to come.

(6.)-  I have never known love without the sweet accompaniment

        of songs of tribute to the blessing of womanhood.

        There are few words to truly pay homage to the

        splendor of warm kisses shared,

        the jig-saw joy of ten fingers joined,

        and the passion of flesh becoming one.

(7.)-  I carry a micro-cassette everywhere to capture

        fleeting thoughts that slip wraith-like into the temple of my cranium,

        I worship their essence and write prayers to them daily.

(8.)-  Flowers call me to expound on their fragile existence,

        painting vibrant verbs and bold adjectives in

        tulip reds and daffodil yellows.

(9.)-  War wounds me to the core, and I weep in soft blue dirges

        that chronicle all that we've lost due to the insanity of hate.

(10.)-    My head is a sieve, a sponge for the muses,

          soaking up what's lyrical in a literal pool.

          It grows heavy when I fail to squeeze out

          its seemingly endless bounty.

(11,)-    I hope to grow old and spend my halcyon days,

          in a wheelchair reflecting on all I was granted,

          A trembling gray head, bent over scratch pads

          pale skin wrought with psoriasis,

          as I race to finish the perfect poem,

          before the rhythms of my life cease.

(12.)-    I am at over 4,000 poems,

          and still my restless heart pursues

          all of the pondering I have left untouched.

          I care little for the fortune and fame

          some acquire in their pursuit of the word.

          Just to have had the opportunity

          to express,and touch others lives

          with emotions  deeply pressed, 

          is amply rewarding enough for me.