It is peculiar

It is peculiar

To be alive,

I have no memory of death

Or ‘not life’

Whichever is more germane.

I do believe

It is connected to

A ‘truth’ about language

And the nature of poetry.

There are more people

Who believe they are poets

Than published poetry.

It sounds odd

I know,

However, a lot of verse

Is derivative

Some poems are labelled

‘In the style of’

I guess I eschew

Such things

Perhaps I’m arrogant

Well I am but that’s another

Deck of cards

If you play by house rules,

That being said

I do like to follow

My own furrow.

I should have ploughed it

By now

But chose not to

Instead, I slip outside

The lines

And remember

The sheen of her hair

As she brushed it

In front of the mirror.

The heart-shape

That mute-swans

Make as they neck

On a silver lake.

The glitter of sunlight

On snow-capped mountains

The shimmer of heat

Rising from the blacktop

As the road disappears

Over the rise

The beat of my heart

Against her chest

When we cling together

In front of a full moon.

The crest of the hill

Overlooking

The city below

The thrill of morning

When I awake

And she is still there.

It is then I am truly grateful

To be alive

Confused as to why I should be

As there is no rhyme

In the reason

But for all my life is worth

It does feel a little like poetry to me.