You Me and Poetry
In becoming one
You may eat, sleep and breathe poets:
Robert Frost for breakfast,
Keats in your coffee.
Spend your morning looking at your home
Through the eyes of Charles Brice.
You may ride
on the shoulders of giants,
Hold on to Woolf’s dark curls
Like some angel
Or demon, whispering in her ear
And dropping stones in her pockets
Or you may prefer to shun these works
For fear of poetic plagiarism
Or worse, linguistic imitation
And let your words flow freely
From an untainted imagination
This poem is about:
Me