Tell me, my clever

son, how many poets does

it take to change a light bulb?

~

None,of course. Poets

may light the spark but change

must glow from within the bulb.

Does careful planning

 allow a joyful note to

over chime the constant din?

~

Consider that small

bird. He plans not;  neither does

he  measure. His joy  just rings.

Small bird, why do you

try to sing when the air is

so full of those cawing crows?

~

The song must be sung!

Like flowers bloom on coal tips

though none ever smell them there.

I found this fertile

pasture by stepping in dung.

Is there any better way?

~

I’ve heard the sages

of the ages say there is

no better way. Urg, I say.

My son, anger turned 

you toward poetry, but what

has caused you to linger there?

~

Verse may heal the wounds,

but creation surely breeds

in existential crisis.