The withered poet was gnarled, made to be grotesque, like a skeleton tree
That has no leaf or inflorescence. The man with the baseball cap
Who searches for a jeweled crown to look royal for a day. A coronation day
I might never see in my lifetime or share on my facebook page.
I’m a hobo, a ragamuffin, unlike the oenophiles and connoisseurs
Who know how to age words to perfection – seemingly with a corked eye.
Looking through the subjective glass, to magnify frogs in a blender. Disjointed
Poems that make limby movements on paper. Break dancing in a ballet floor. Doing the limbo in a ballroom.
I’m no ballerina or waltz king. Nor am I a puppet of bards. Avant-garde
Is always a little frog that turns into a handsome prince. And you only need a kiss
From an objective eye, a little magic in ink, abracadabra from a nib.
Like mermaids on a paper-wave wailing to be saved from sea buccaneers.
Not to be looted like languid sloth manatees
And each little diorama is like making bonsai
Little cherry blossom branches sculpted from a little scissors
And exhibited inside a little orchard
Surely spring is not far away.