There is a reason I cast poems about lacy-edged waves sliding onto slick sand
and why I write about singing night birds and coyotes skulking in the shadows.
I paint with words the image of moon jellies floating in an infinite blue void.
The teachers say I must write of things I know, and the thing I know best should be me.
The critics say look to the past, share the pain, point to the others who rent my heart.
The experts say a poem is good if tears and rage spill like blood on a butcher’s block.
I won’t be Sylvia Plath going crackers in a bell jar, or one of her
colleagues harping on suicide, and spinning her madness and agony on paper.
I would be Issa and Basho singing of sparkling dragonflies and plopping frogs.
I would be Li Po and Wang Wei crafting verses about trees and shards of moonlight.
I would be Robert Frost and Miss Dickinson finding beauty in silent snowy
roads less traveled and in the elegant simplicity of a homebody’s life.
There is a reason I fling poems about yellow-eyed cats, driving rain and hot coffee.
I will not assume that I should be the center of your universe. I want to
find my world in that proverbial grain of sand and hitchhike on the backs of stars.
LJGloyd (c) 2013
Photo: Moon Jellies in a Blue Void