Why do I want to write a poem
When it's time to go to bed?
Is there nothing more important
Filling, spilling from my crammed computer-like head?
Why don't I design a garden city?
Or a ribbon party dress that's sequin pretty
Or a useful theory which explains
And cures midnight's imagined aches and pains?
Is a poem procrastinating, just a helpful way
Of sorting out a tangled, mangled busy day
Of pushing out and clearing cluttered stress
Creating dreams from a waste basket of rcycled mess
Like baking a new cake from melted fears
A sprinkling of almond smiles and iced roses of laughter
Thawing ice cubes of peppery tears
To make thoughts of happy ever after?
Instead of writing tomorrow's vital shopping list
Imagining I'm dancing, hugged, loved, stroked and patted, petted, kissed
Hearing the hushed voies of all those I'm glad to know
Reciting, reading a crescendo of vivid colours of the rainbow
A poem's not a waste of precious ticking time
Maybe yours - just the old ones, but never, none of mine
Mine fit me perfectly, like hand in glove
Cliches crossed out, new thoughts knitted neatly, spotlighting love
So I can sweetly sleep, dreaming of skies of perfect blue
And northern lights in arches and waves of vivid pink
My thoughts like happy pairs of bluebirds fly to you
Refreshing us like sipping shared, long, cool, coloured summer drinks.
-ends-
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