Poems, snapshots of our life, or Kundalini of the moment.
As cameramen need light, so we too need the brightness
of our inspiration. Windows of the soul become desired goals.
So let them smirk at all our quirky ways but let the words
remain somewhere in abeyance of our forebearance just
as our parents may have encouraged us to do, let not our
precious words escape like slipping slates. Be Impala
like when in the veldt and hounded by baboons. Set free
your looney words even when the vultures circle overhead
but never let your legacy be sheepishness is all I pray. For
perhaps a day, some masterpiece will land on centre stage
being the crown by which people will remember who you were
and say, I'm certain it was him - he used to smoke coronas when
in later life but earlier rolled up ciggies like the street kids did