Poem A Day For A Year
Each day there are poems in my head,
until I write them into reality.
Reality does not accept all of the poems
with a smile and open arms.
The page is not a page,
but a white word-processing screen.
Thus, ink is not ink,
just the manipulation of RGB light patterns.
Once a month, my poetry bends the stars
to a new trajectory.
No. That is just so much overblown ego.
A hazard of loving one’s own words, too much.
Consider all the verse
the back-space key annihilates:
the blank page achieving the victory of a poem
is a battlefield strewn with the invisible dead parts of speech.
copyright © 2018 Kenneth P. Gurney
