Vintage Words


As a poet I am a tinderbox

about to explode at any moment

with an outburst of emotion

or some fountain of words

expressing opinion or state

of bliss or malaise.


Unavoidably, charcoal emotions

flicker and heat up before making

their debut with fireworks or

flint to steel sparks of odd notions

born in a fecund mental box

called imagination.


I did not plan to grow up

and become a tinderbox. I kept

igniting little pieces of the world

and decided to write it down as

it cooled and solidified.


Verse arrived later, as a vehicle,

but the spark and resultant fire of ideas

had gradually become a conflagration

of volcanic ideas spewing molten

fire onto any mountain ranges leading

to the rivers of any listeners; to cool

slowly upon encounter with human air

or any poem-loving ocean.







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