Glory To the Maker
It is good to be alive.
The date and time on a digital clock
sings me a sotto voce halleluiah
as I roll over into the surf
of a shallow listlessness.
This is how a poem arrives,
In a leaky boat loaded with refugees
all slowly coming ashore.
Some refuse to shout out,
some clamor for attention.
I am threading ghosts through
the eye of a needle – not easy
unless you are a blatherskite.
The voices come nearer.
I am multilingual
in a non-vocal way.
Poets need to be rescued from
their own silence.
Then maybe, the birds will sing out,
the sky will be born again,
and the maker will make coffee
and write something.
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