A poem is like a pair of glasses

Lenses I can flip down

Rose tinted, perhaps, but

With them on, I can see flecks of gold among the dirt

and music bleeding through words

and a story behind a lost shoelace

 

With poetry, you don’t have to follow the rules

Call a spade not a spade but a memory of a grandmother:

Who always seemed to have one poised like a magic wand,

Ready to create life.

 

Isn’t that more fun?

 

Follow the rules,

b r e a k t h e r u l e s:

Do whatever makes your heart sing

 

Or when

You’re huddled in your blankets

but the summer heat still seems

so cold

With your hands

clutching your chest

to try to hide

how empty it all feels

(But your eyes show it just the same)

Reach out: with a trembling hand

Turn on the light, grab your notebook,

And start writing.