Poem of the Week ~ To the Depths of Whatever I Am

Kids, the Poetry Pantry is always well-stocked with goodies, and I savor every one. But when I got to this humorous poem recently about how it feels to be a poet, I knew I had found our Poem of the Week.  Dances With Vodka writes at her blog of the same name. Enjoy. This poem will make you smile.

To The Depths of Whatever I Am

I can't remember

the first time I was called a poet

or by whom;

Though I do recall

something within me sank

to the depths of whatever I am

That's an intense responsibility,

you know...

Do I even have a choice in this matter?

Or is this like a given name,

stamped on my birth certificate?

Did I check the box on my driver's license:

"Will donate organs, blood,

observations of life and the human spirit"

If this was given: Why me?!

If this was chosen: Was I drunk?!

We won't even discuss

whether or not I must

or must not be great--

Or if I can just keep it simple

on the surface,

and rhyme about the food I ate;

All that, and my pride aside--

It doesn't even matter.

Someone pushed

a roller coaster ride

Straight through my chest

and my heart is alone,

screaming in the front seat--

strapped down

by a lifetime of words

First words

Last Words

Words soaked in late evening summer sheets

Words stuck in traffic

Words naming babies

Words Coming Home

Kind words, apologizing

for the wrong that other words have done.

Words needing someone.

Some frogs complain about being green

So I shoved some black and blue pens

in a bindle,

and headed out to trade them,

with hopes that I can leap over this crazy scene

Do you know how many poems

a poet can give birth to?

And some don't even grow up to fit their name.

I never got my body back

after that first stanza.

My head feels like a thesaurus's bloated twin.

And I'm poet-tired

from all these early lyric cries

and midnight feedings.

Sleep doesn't call me anymore--

won't even spend the night on a weekend,

or admit that we had something once.

This is rarely a day at the beach

But I'm forever shaking off the sand,

And even if I don't leave my pages

out in the sun--

aging lines appear,

and rhymes form

like freckles everywhere.

Staring at this mirror,

through young, but weary eyes--

I can only surmise,

that one day,

my hands will cramp

and not recover,

finger tips still stained,

prints leaving evidence of passion,

 and the tumult of a mind gone mad;

And there is very little doubt,

that on their way out

those final words

will read:

Oh, God! Why me?

But there is fire in fear;

A bright secret

slips through parting clouds,

and a voice

cowering beneath a soft sheet of breath,

whispers...

"Thank You!"

Thank YOU, Dances With Vodka, for posting this humorous gem in the Pantry. Keep dancing!