Writing
I became a poet
in March of two thousand ten,
not knowing it then
and even later didn’t know it.
Now some tell me so,
and in so doing, reveal
as surely as church bells peal
as far as the sound shall go.
With pen in hand,
bent to heartily confess,
I write with no thought of stress,
laying down verbal contraband.
Some true, some false
but most, purely make believe.
I write for myself to please,
my pleasure above all else.
If one line outlive my life
pray I with every lasting breath.
one may read and smile, and I in death
entreat my timely gift to suffice.
Charles
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