A poet is like a visual photographer

He shapes letters into color and emotion.

Captures an instant in a phrase

Gives life and meaning to cold ink



A duck on a pond is not just a duck on a pond

But the embodiment of the clumsy side of nature

Floating aimlessly on the dark, rippling water,

Droplets tumbling onto and over its sleek wings

Then plunging its head in with a carefree disregard

Waggling its tail like a feathery banner

Until disturbed by a suspicious branch



A poet cannot simply exist

He must BE

Both for others

And for himself

He must notice the minute

Writes to save the moment,

To remember

To share

To see

To live.


I haven't written for a while now.

I wonder if I'm going blind

Or dying.