To be a writer

Word whirl
within my wild,
wandering mind,
trying to find
what the times can’t provide.
Inside,
it’s a hurricane, hailstorm,
with letters of lightning,
a torrent of typography
flooding the ford with unfathomable feeling
and unsearchable sentences.
I’m overwhelmed by Oxford commas
and under attack by apostrophes,
quashed by quotation marks
and dominated by dangling modifiers.
The clauses crowd each other out,
calling and quoting and constructing these
out-of-context icons of inexplicable integrity
crumpled and confused and uncontainable.
The captive constructions
are pulling at their artificial tethers,
raring to be free,
to burst the seems of reality and be.
Thus defeated by my ideas, I set my pen to paper
and everything goes silent, unseen.

Life

Do you hear
the deafening declaration
of the definite,
the dauntless,
dissolving the dawn?

Do you taste
the whorling whirlwind
the whizzing wonder
of the wilderness
in winter?

Do you see
the homebound hero
hobbling
here and there,
heartbroken?

Do you feel
the rhythmic rolling,
radiant, remorseless rumbling
rocking the revolution
as it roars?

Do you smell
the aroma of addiction
arousing the animal
alive inside
as it awakens?

Do you know
the pang of pollution,
purity plundered,
passion pulsing
powerlessly?

Do you ever experience
this wondrous world
you wander in?
The wisteria
and the willow,
The whistler
and the whittler,
the woodpecker
and the windchimes,
the wonderers
and the wanderers.

Have you met
the traveller?
Twisted tree,
Torn temple,
Tireless twinkling eyes.

“Welcome to the world.”