the poet’s eye

for a long time I stopped
thinking of myself as a poet,
calling myself a writer,
or trying to look at the world
through a poet’s eye. many years
went by in silence, blindness
and deliberate unknowing.

but lately
I have revived
my old writing bones,
resurrected my dead poet’s
eye, and now I see things
that before I wouldn’t have
noticed: the restaurant
called Caravan of Dreams;
how the purple blooms
of the pansies planted
outside a building in my neighborhood
look like tiny screaming faces;
the record cover reading,
“Can’t We Just Start Over”
or something like that. I didn’t
write this poem quickly enough
so already I’ve forgotten
the exact wording.

let that be
a lesson to me. practice
seeing like a poet, rehearse
being a writer
until it comes as naturally
as breathing, lest the strange
and beautiful sights and sounds
you’re surrounded by
pass you by.

Published by

R. Brookes McKenzie

what fresh hell is this

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