How the Poet Laureate Spends His Days
All I do these drawn-out days
is sit in my kitchen at Pheasant Ridge
In my upholstered chair by a window
with dusk pouring into my room,
I appeared to be doing nothing
I sat in an armchair in the living room
and turned the pages without a clue
when suddenly I found myself lying on a couch
where I closed my eyes
Instead of choosing one thing over another,
I would do nothing
I decided as I lay down on the carpet
I had nothing to do
is it my job simply to sit as still
as the glass of water on the night table
then I walked out into the blackened woods
and sat on a rock
And who cares if it takes me all day
to write a poem
I was never the smartest monkey on the block
A cento made from poems from Ballistics by Billy Collins
What, Me Worry?
today i empathized with the top of a tower
i’ve been looking at the screen for a long time
you are a goldfish and i am alienated
do not let me alienate you because i am small and afraid
a crumpled ball of paper
some inconceivable crisis thing
a calm, melodramatic, silent apocalypse
from brandon scott gorrell
To Whom It May Concern,
I went to the grocery store today.
I made the man at the grocery store nervous.
My mom called me.
No one cares about poetry.
Probably going to die alone.
I want to write a poem with you.
from Ellen Kennedy
greg santos blogs here