It dawned on me

that we all sing
songs of self
for others
no matter the key
or tempo
the shades or tones

whether by
big lakes in
long white dreams
or down in
provinces where
the hickory nuts grow
or even in
the realm of
deeper Dixie South

too far below
the Mason D to even
see a shadow
skirt the ground

poems are now
jungle drums on
electric wires
speed of light
transmissions
of thought
or something posing
as thought

poems are purveyors
of what's shakin'
inside and out
up and down
words that fit
or don't

poems are as
natural as
cigarettes and coffee
daylight in the window
news or weather
rattling in the
TV background

maybe even breath

I write no
great poems
this day
just a mass
of words
flung through ether
by marvels
beyond my
comprehension

characters that
come to rest
on retinas
that never burned
my image
in reality

and it dawns
on me that
life may be
much more grand

than we are
ever willing

to admit