Poets Are People, Too*

They walk, and talk
to themselves when another
is absent. They eat and drink

too much, and piss
and shit their little poem turds
onto the porcelain page and

cannot resist a look-see
and an audience to tell.
Poets make love famously well

to others (show, don’t tell!)
because they practice so much
by themselves.

 

*Written by me on July 28, 2010 and previously posted at Bard of Liminga — https://raysharp.wordpress.com/2010/07/28/poets-are-people-too/

 

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Another Perspective

Another poem about the view from a different perspective, also featured at VerseWrights.

Poets on the Moon

Two poets met on the moon. They stood on the acute rim of ink-black shadow and paper-white silence. There was no birdsong, no river wild, just the ghosts of old dogs willed to the object of their howling. They looked up at the blue Earth, where they saw themselves not as far apart as they had imagined. Without shifting their gaze, they clasped hand, fingers interlaced, heads empty as craters, hearts full of stardust, thirsty, beneath a bright, watery planet.