An accidental poem

Sometimes I write

like some sort of madman/

a dangerous homicidal stain on the wall.

 

All the washing in the entire world,

cannot lift the stain out-

I’m reddish blue, with purple hues.

Among blades of grass,

mowing

you walk on past me.

 

Just like, I am accidental.

A poet that happened-

for no reason at all.

 

If I stop and think

of what I want to say;

surely all the words will gather

their steeds and gallop away.

 

I will be the one,

sitting sideways in a corner.

Counting on riddles and a pun.

Language has many lovely uses.

To communicate, to share, to speak, to write

and to read.

Language -to gather in armfuls

of violets,

to trickle out of a pouring rain,

into garbled poet-speak.

 

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