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Poem
I 
A right became an unexpected left; 
Nothing more important than subliminal 
country miles that pulled me forward, 
no destination or thought to why, 
just my surprise. Some ten miles gone, 
I felt a ray of grace; the reason 
for this race, and as I chased a trace 
of errant time – I thought of a line. 

I felt a now in my existence, 
and shared a smile with the corn silk 
light that fed my way, and the wind 
that blew the hair around my face. 

A chance to share some thoughts of mine, 
Within the realm of reason, street and rhyme. 

II 
Once upon a time, in Everyday, 
the minutes and hours of the human 
condition, the hopes and dreams, sadness 
and screams, the cries of sedition, 
the plight of the lost, intolerance 
and ignorance, expressions of love 
for country and man, were duly recorded 
by a poet's hand, a composer who scored the lay 
of the land. And mouth to ear, where needed, 
we shared his composition, in celebration 
of the word's intended mission- 
food for thought. And then it stopped. 

We gave poetry away to obscurity, 
to the teachers of form and craft, 
who slipped overboard in their zeal 
to define the titles for the times, 
of what is a "must read", for greed, 
and intellectualizing need, 
to feed their egos and their jobs. 
Indeed. 

With speed, they redefined 
and refined the voice of inspiration; 
imagination served with a mutant strain 
of peas. Poetry beyond the realm 
of good digestion, the cause 
of painful indigestion in the mind. 

They built a world of poetry, 
that will never sing a child to sleep; 
Mutant peas engender nightmares 
in the young. 

III 
She said, 
"I love the way my body moves when I read Seuss." 
(For any traditional poet, this mom's good news) 

"But what of street, the beat and passion; 
the march of voices crying to be heard, 
the visualizations from a well-wrapped word? 
Can you read one and exclude the other; 
is it all about the prize and what's in fashion?" 

"No, it's about what I like. Last night, 
I drank in Whitman's leaves, with a little 
Shakespeare chaser. and tonight, I might 
guzzle Ginsberg and savor Kerouac 
like a fine wine in meandering 
subconscious streams." 

Who could disagree with her taste in words? 
So I drank a little more Baudelaire and went 
to sleep myself.
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