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Trees weep when I write

Trees weep when I write knowing they pay a price for each word, each line each crumpled thought. They cry as pencils, worn to nub-like points are cursed and banished. Recycle barrels are not impressed for racoons do not read poetry fail to grasp the metaphor of transient words the alliteration of rhythms drumbeat nor does the alley cat serenade the windowed house cat. An itinerant wind may carry my poetry crumpled in its pocket, drop it somewhere and by chance a passerby take a peek. And knowing this I still write to sate the insatiable appetites of a guileless muse for she knows not of the trees or the oceans lest I explore them for her with her, because of her. For we are lovers of places only we can go feelings only we can share moments spent alone exploring the blank pages of poetic wondering. John G. Lawless ©3/3/2020

Copyright © | Year Posted 2022

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Date: 3/7/2022 11:49:00 PM
Here I sit with 3,330+ years of 'Jewish guilt' hanging over me like a Yiddishe mother-in-law, and now I've gotta read this?! lol. Seriously, eloquent write, John. Bravo, Gershon
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Date: 3/4/2022 8:35:00 AM
Loved the flow of your fine poem on writing, for it does, indeed, feed our "insatiable appetites." Enjoyed it, John.
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John lawless
Date: 3/5/2022 2:30:00 PM
thanks for stopping to read and chuckle a bit. just having some fun with the insanity of the insatiable...