Saturday, February 28, 2009
Surrogate: A Saturday Poem
Anyone who believes in an afterlife, as I do,
has to believe that all poets are still writing,
but cannot. Because they are dead.
They find it hard to hold pencil or pen.
But to make me do it? This is not a problem.
And they succeed, from time to time.
The best poets are dead, we know that.
But one came to me just this morning.
Saying, “Write this down, you idiot.”
None of us are dead, really, but live,
and are alive in every awareness - every
hummingbird over a flower, today.
Tell it, for me.
© Ciprianowords Inc. 2009