Where Do I Fall?

The written word carries significance

Some use it to instruct and say

“Knowledge is power” (Bacon)

Others, they write down history

Convey myths passed through the ages

Homer, my friend, I’m looking at you

 

Where do I fall in ages hence

Since ancient dactylic hexameter

And the Shakespearian sonnet?

As scraps of notepaper scribbled

 In the middle of the darkness

Accumulate in bookmarks placed

Between the many pages of

The more famous poets

 Bound in the best indicator

Of worth--Post-copyright publication

 

Sometimes a fantasy someone

Leaves their own scribbled ripped up scraps

In imagined pages of mine

Inspired by great combinations

Of twenty-six letters in

Organized eleven point type

But those thoughts lie in bed after

My pen stops being so darn shy

And scampers out of bookbag’s depths

Between midnight inspiration

Like the moon peeking between clouds

And a blinding bedside  lamp

By then I am too lazy to

Even roll away from warm blankets

 

When no one looks, I write to muse

To myself and my  own Muse

Who lends her hand to shape my thoughts

Sometimes a proud marble pillar

And sometimes a humble clay pot

Admitted few, are to my museum

And I, the curator, can polish

When they need be put on display

 

The ink flows best at certain times

When ozone like turpentine fills

The air, and loosens thoughts a bit

 Fast fingers fly keyboard

When upset emotions need shared

Unable to explain in prose

Which requires punctuation

That’s blurred on the keyboard by tears

They’re conveyed by the stanzas made

By hitting Enter frantically

The right side of the brain, saturated

Bleeds into the left hemisphere

Where words like building blocks are stored

And late night dizziness mixes

Colors and grammar into a

 Poetic Lego tower that

Needs  be kicked over a bit

And then rebuilt in cold coffee

 Logic of ten in the morning

 

So where do I fall in?

Between Wordsworth and Frost’s famous

Yellow picturesque nature scenes

How can i Compare to Cummings’

Unique use of  Capitalization?

My social experiences will

Never have Neruda’s roughness

And all the notepaper bookmarks

Will never add to Dickinson’s

Total of seventeen hundred

But I write for myself sometimes

And my friends on occasion too

And I think  that it is enough

To bring a smile to someone’s face

At four in the morning with

A demure doodle of some words.

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