For National Poetry Month


a lot of folks keep
indicating poetry is dead
but if poetry is dead
then i a poet am dead too
and i a poet refuse to
die oh so easily
and i a poet refuse
to lay down my pen
into a burning grave
where all poems are laid
waiting for the stroke
of heavy brute hands
holding a cruel match
to torch any semblance
of intelligentsia bound
to pen bound to parchment
bound to deliver courage
to quavering souls
bound to deliver laughter
to discouraged cold
bound to deliver tears
to hardened hearts
bound to deliver smiles
to lips depressed daily
by hardship scorn