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Most of my writing is self-exploration
I write for release, not for you,
Not my drift here to say though that you do not count,
I do hope that you like it, I do.

Frequently I am seduced by a title,
Though writer, don’t know its home barn!
We’re both led by the nose as the flesh on bone grows,
It is “id,” not just me that spins yarn!

Most of my words are like trees in a forest,
But word on page strikes sound AND pain…
On the page, in the void, is it value or loss?
And if no one should care, is all vain?

Writing for me is a path to my feelings,
But rarely do I feel in charge,
For I seldom start knowing the tone or the plot,
Chance of altering ship’s course not large.

I let my poems suggest their best structure,
And most choose both rhythm and rhyme.
I find discipline brings new ideas to my verse
That seem fresher, less covered with grime.

All “random” thinking’s connected, poetic,
Its birthplace is always the soul,
And the key to the verse you seek? Listen with heart!
Ego sucks! It’s not poetry’s goal.

What follows is most precious gift that I bring you,
Enroll in the “School of What’s Next,”
It’s your compass when you’re feeling hopelessly lost
And your verse has reverted to text!

Where is the stanza you thought had no meaning,
Or what brainstorm backed up the flow?
Just give up on your brain and go back to your heart
For the best plan is what you don’t know!

Trust in the fact that your voice is the answer,
It’s all that you need to win day.
Let your butterfly visit the flowers it missed,
Write your poem as if it is play!

May reader find value greater than fancy,
And trust the sweet flow of his mind,
Let’s give thanks to our Lord; His Grace supersedes truth,
And may God bless our poems in kind!


Long Tooth
February 18, 2017

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