There are endless ways
Life turns sour, like when moratoriums
Are issued against a poet.
And still you dig deep, through layers
Of rock, to find that aquifer
From where all good things originate.
Poetic justice is only found navigating hostility.
And I’m like Salman Rushdie
Banished from all poetic journals.
Like Jesus was to the Pharisees at the temple.
And no God can help me at the hands
And still that beautiful strain
Of poetry infects me. And I look at what lies
Ahead, that in spite of the lone voice
Seeking justice, there is something beautiful
And possibility will always be
That pink ribbon waiting for your tug