nobody writes poetry for the fame:
I doubt that I’ll ever
sell out a concert hall –
where adoring fans will scream
to hear me reciting free verse,
or swoon as they listen
to tight metered form poetry
I’ll never have gobs of money
thrust into my hands
just for the privilege
of having my autograph
on a note-pad
Chances are slim
that I’ll ever be stopped
on the street by someone who gushes
“Aren’t you Bryan the poet?”
or, “I recognize you from
the picture on your blog”
nobody writes poetry for the fame:
so what’s the point?
Why does the robin sing
as it splashes in a puddle
why does a baby coo when
she sees her favourite toy
why does a dog bare his teeth
at an approaching stranger
why does the nettle sting
at the slightest touch?
The bird, the baby, the beast,
even the plants…