Poets are born, die, crushed by writer’s block or a cruel world, and are reborn again and again. \u00a0The world can be a desert at times, sometimes worse. \u00a0Yet, as a child, an infant in the arms of a mysterious universe that somehow cares for us, we are fed. \u00a0We launch ships and create beauty that remains largely unseen. \u00a0But, like the macaroni art that only a mother could love, we return to our source, a home, even if a home to no other; and we take a place of honor, as a sentinel on a doorway to that place where Mom’s food is stored.<\/p>\n
Unfed Just Desserts<\/span><\/p>\n When I find myself<\/span> Poets are born, die, crushed by writer’s block or a cruel world, and are reborn again and again. \u00a0The world can be a desert at times, sometimes worse. \u00a0Yet, as a child, an infant in the arms of a mysterious … Continue reading
\nUnfed<\/span>
\nI play<\/span>
\nThe child<\/span>
\nImaginary<\/span>
\nTea<\/span>
\nSet<\/span>
\nAgainst<\/span>
\nMe<\/span>
\nStill<\/span>
\nUn-made<\/span>
\nFore<\/span>
\nSolid food<\/span>
\nNot with standing<\/span>
\nIn a world of<\/span>
\nMake believe<\/span>
\nPartial to<\/span>
\nAnew born<\/span>
\nWho finds their nourishment<\/span>
\nSpewed about<\/span>
\nMuch to the dismay<\/span>
\nOf those with<\/span>
\nMore mature tongues<\/span>
\nAnd ingenious mines<\/span>
\nNo amount of trains or planes<\/span>
\nCould carry the sustenance<\/span>
\nI re-choir<\/span>
\nThough utterly captivated<\/span>
\nMy self<\/span>
\nI let out a powerful wail<\/span>
\nEnough blubber<\/span>
\nTo endow<\/span>
\nA thousand poor SOBs<\/span>
\nAny mother knows what I’m talking about!<\/span>
\nAnd I am herd<\/span>
\nAs I<\/span>
\nGo on<\/span>
\nStrike<\/span>
\nAn umbilical chord<\/span>
\nSending me to my womb<\/span>
\nWear a dinner awaits<\/span>
\nUnserved in any dining room<\/span>
\nJust desserts<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"