If i were going to write poetry,
I would start with a stormy shore
and a lost ship, braving the waves
and a maiden in a tower
twenty yards from the shore,
worrying and debating about
something that matters little
of tea cups and coffee spoons
and lords and lordships and kingdoms

and when the ship is dashed upon the
rocks
and indeed it is a necessity,
for it could not be prevented.
The lady would come to her conclusion
and choose the silver spoon
with the inset emerald
and striking gold filigree.

and as the men swam for the shore
they would soon realize it was a foreign shore
those few that survived
gasping for air
their eyes burning from saltwater

they would land and thank their gods
for survival
for life
and the lady
from her tower twenty yards away would see these men
and the drowned men, the dead men
and she would reconsider
the emerald is too tacky
she would then decide on a simple golden spoon
inset with a peridot
with subtle silver filigree.

half wise

When there is nothing but life in a cartoon pedigree,
where you are defined by a tree, in a scent, in a leaf.
there
you may find yourself, lifting a bottle, and glancing half wise to your left...
at the object of your love, at that miserable thing called love
and you might realize, that the cap is still on the bottle

but not until your lips touch it
not a second before you lips touch it

and you might feel like you once had a gift, but it was lost to your age, or maybe your wisdom
when you were less wise, it seemed greater, and now more wise, it seems smaller, and less significant, and you may find yourself, glancing half wise at that thing and wishing it were greater.

but not until your lips touch it.