The Spotlight

[Original Image can be found here]

There was a seed named

after my descendants, which

was supposed to grow

brown, orange & purple,

strong and rooted like an oak,

branching out its stems of inspirations

meant to flourish the most

mouth-watering fruits

on the tongues of those who listened.

You listened just as well as I delivered

orchestra of questions, I want to know:

can you dance to the beats of my heart?

Or are you just gonna stand still?

From poem to prose.

That’s how much you can handle.

How can you ask a poet

to be less of a poet?

To change a line of a poem?

To relocate a stanza because

it makes you uncomfortable?

To make it shorter?

To reconsider poetry in your life?

To say that poems for this poet

are nothing but the spotlight.

It’s effortless to explain

that when I was kid my favorite

thing to do was to climb on trees,

and spend the afternoons

listening to her sounds

holding her as if we were both one

and that this one day it was like

she transferred stems of inspirations

to me and the most

mouth-watering fruits

flourished on the tongues of those who listened.

So I started being a poet, I would write my poems

in her dead leaves, hoping to bring them to live:

I was only 6 or 5.

How can that be the spotlight…?

And even if none of that happened…

And the poet had just now become

a poet, supposed to grow

brown, orange & purple,

strong and rooted like an oak,

how can’t you see that

my brain vibrates to my hearts

which pulsate to my hands,

which let go of my tongue,

which travels as a nomad to

the countries of images and words

formed by the first breath we breathed

together.

You wouldn’t think I’d notice that:

It was a dead gasp of air.

From poem to poem.

That’s how’s spirit is created,

fire is lit, mountains are moved,

ground is established, 

love is discovered.
Poem are my leaves
and they will never die.