My Picture: Hue, Vietnam.

At last a time to write poetry,
pleasure in a few lines and
put way outside the neon glow of the city.
Embraced as timeless ancient rites
hovering impatiently, underneath
an ancient whining sky.

Each day, I deal with teachers
digging for reflection.
Medical students scratching
for remedies displayed.
And English majors who think
all poetry is sad.

Now is a good time to be a poet.
To talk about words at the end of life,
and the gentle kindness of the human touch.
To cry out against the streetlights,
that scream their words at night.

Shimmering greens, blues and reds that
blanket the earth like bees around a hive.
And weave a neon mesh that
kills the power and hope of words.
Now is a good time to be a poet.