Some poets burn their candles to the snuff;
it makes me shout that I have had enough!
I scan their lines for something new to learn;
they craft their works with words I can’t discern.
They write of politics, expose love scenes.
In outer space, they claim, they grow green beans.
They speak of chemo rooms like vintage wine
and pen a parody on porcupine.
A freeway runs along the coast to Maine;
they bus me there through sheets of coldest rain.
They guide me to the quaint brush arbor meets;
I pray for soldiers on Iraqi streets.
The poets tell of trains that dance the rails,
then paint the ships at sea with wind-torn sails.
Like wheels, they roll to publish what they know.
Some win awards and stash their dabs of dough!
© 2013 Freeda Baker Nichols