Monday Magpie

Figure Eight, 1952, Franz Kline

Notation

I want to be a poet, I have always

known it, my hopeless flow

of words forever trying

to arrange themselves just so --

my grandfather, his deep

vault of thoughts

and father, his dialogue

reciting what was sung or said

and mother, how her ink marks

became music

these are to thank, or blame

but poetry is for the eyes

that hear it, the ears

that can see what it is trying to say

hands that find a way to move

the pen and person

also for the grass, trees

in wind, the birds, the mind

and everything else that was made

to sing, the dance and sway

of numbers, science and the way

it fits its pieces perfectly

rhythm, rhyme, spot-on surprise

the sharp breath and the sigh

the pattern of all things

the privilege, still

I want to be a poet,

at least I have always known it

--smh

This poem is a response 

to a prompt from The Mag. 

Stop by to add your own twist to the story . . .