Tuesday, April 1, 2025

poem

 Authenticity

A real poet is a poet

All the time

Not just while writing.

They shower in stanzas

And run errands

Down near the caesura.

Sometimes they love,

But mostly in metaphor.

Anyone who falls for one

Turns into a summer’s day 

Or a red red rose

Or a glass queen 

On the chessboard

He hides in his heart.


A doctor isn’t a real poet, either. 

It’s only when he writes,

White coat hanging on a hook,

Wife picking up the kids from practice.

He isn’t really a husband

Then, nor a father, nor surgeon.

He always has to choose one 

At the expense of another—

Equally deserving pieces

Forked by a wily knight.


After an operation 

There are a few moments of bliss

When he remembers he is nothing:

Neither poet nor doctor nor king.

He dictates his actions in prose

So there isn’t any confusion

And then the delicate game

Can start all over again.


4/1/25

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