In search of his one true love…

Hummingbird Moth

 In search of his one true love he quested last night.

To begin life again has its own physics, 
but his, his was the kinetics of generations of destiny.

The moth need not overcome the inertia of its own distracted life
but beats and thrums incessantly.
Maniacally its wings "rat-a-tat-tat"against the clear light cover
storming the glass, battering the obstacle twixt it and the heat it seeks.

He threw himself again and again

leaving grey and brown dust marks where others luckier than him had found the secret entrance in;
he could not tear himself away from the beckoning siren light
and fly a few hundred feet instead to where the female waited
wings flat and still like a collector’s pinned specimen
pheromones spreading their welcome
just beyond domestic sight.
At last his Achemon god said yes to the drumming of his plea
up over the glowing globe he mounted and into his one true love he came
Pfft, and thump were the inglorious end to his hummingbird like flight
and now he is still but for the toss and catch in an orange feral cat’s game.

April is National Poetry Month in the USA

 I had many dreams as a child; two most persistent were to be a nurse and to be a great poet.

I remember when we got our families first TV, 
I had learned by then that writing poems
and Ivy halls of learning were not meant for little girls like me
but I still preferred books, 
although when I was sick at home,
 I loved the gameshow Jeopardy
Once I was paid for my pens production
enough money came in for the words going out to almost feed my family.
I once horrified a television audience when the interviewer asked what I wrote
and I laughed and said I was kind of a print whore, that I would write whatever someone would pay for
and i was paid for what I wrote
even a few times for poetry
and I wasn’t changing the world, the world was changing me.
But I am a nurse now, 
Poetic inclinations my private peccadillo.
I sip on Emerson, or Pastan with morning coffee.
Twice traversed Walcott’s Omerus all alone
I nestle in with Frost, Dove or Emily when the comfort of familiar is my need
and I still love Jeopardy.

Answer:W.S. Merwin, Kay Ryan, Charles Simic, Donald Hall, Ted Kooser

Who are the last five Poet Laureate’s of the United States of America.

I knew the answer. And laughed embarrassed that I knew.
Robert Frost was my nursery food, born though I was to Randall Jarrell, I did not read at all until I was three
So learned not of Dying Gods till middle school libraries.
But nurses are a practical lot.
I am a nurse now
and I am afraid
My life is not made up of  tortured turns at love that lead to Simic style reverie
And all my pens are trained to report the facts, and only the facts of what I hear and smell and see
on black ink legal records.
My pens rebel, refusing to scratch out a dozen words to symbolize the desert spring.
My hands change beds
Clean bodies
Take vital signs
Hold other too hot or too cool hands
Give medicines
and hope 
and caring
My heart listens to regrets and plans.
I once desired to write with art
and move others as the greats moved me
But chose instead to serve with deeds not words
And hope now my hands and heart  will substitute for never having made
one verse of worthwhile poetry.