Someone asks, how do you write
So much, all the time,
And about so many different things.
I say that I really have no idea;
But I know it's what I do right now;
And when it will end will never be clear,
It really doesn't even matter to me;
Could be as soon as tomorrow; next year;
Or, if and when I reach ninety and three.
Some can say it's because I lost one dear;
Some can say it's just plain old therapy;
I say that that is less and less true,
I say it's because I'm still breathing here,
And it's my soul now that gets to renew.
And I still have eyes that see in imagery;
I see things that can be far away or near,
Words and phrases then may appear to me,
(Keeping a pen and notebook handy) ,
And I cobble and assemble them later,
Much like forging with an old village smithy.
I just feel that there are words that convey
What I sense, and what it is I want to say
About this or that; his or her story;
About the dark that we deal with day by day,
Or the eternal light that can give us all a lift…
But always, I reach for the best fruit on the tree…
And if someone likes it… well, then it's a gift…
If no one does… then, it belongs only to me…
And, that, is what is simply called… poetry.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem