The Woman Who Made Me a Poet ~ a poem
The
Woman Who Made Me a Poet
Unaware,
the woman
who
made me a poet
goes
about her days
in
a house full of dogs.
Different
dogs, now,
than
those that crowded us
on
the couch and I
do
not know their names.
Not
that it matters. I have
words
now, sleeping at
my
side, fetching memories
I
toss upon the green
lawns
of years ago.
And
the woman who made
me
a poet does not
know
these games; she does
not
know these words that found
their
way to my door,
tails
wagging, begging to be
taken
in. She does
not
know they speak of her.
Stephen
Brooke ©2015
Although I have not been in 'poet mode' recently, the phrase that became the title to this piece came to me this morning and I had to write this. An all-at-once poem, not one crafted over a period of time, and therefor rather simple in structure (roughly accentual) and concept.
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