For National Poetry Month, I’m sharing poems each day, one that I’ve written followed by whatever one from three sites that share a poem a day that strikes my fancy that day.

The Poet

is reporting
the world's wrinkles
one whorl at a time,
bouncing between
worlds, this ring
this love is
real, this pen
not so much.

His mind tilts.
He thinks this is
how kids lose
their sense of 
reality, the belief
this is not real,
this is dream.

What is real
is the minutiae
visible on a hand,
the intricate
designs
hieroglyphic
in nature.

This is why
they locked
the Boston poet
up, the
Cambridge poet
who saw
the Apocalypse.

What mirror
did such men
hold up
to themselves?
Not a TV
screen.

Nature's poles 
collide,
only God can
stop
the poem.
Man continues
in a confessional
mode,
it peeks
out from its lair:

work clouds
the mind.

Who'll stop
and hear the
roses,
Mary?

Dawn awaits
creation to be 
birthed
out of the skull.

The modern
Russian novelist
would understand,

the postmodern
American pale-
ontologist
who says
touching artifacts
is like waking
a stranger
in one's own bed

he knows 
what it's like
to wake
that stranger
every night

it's a dream
the poet cannot 
identify,
shake loose
from.

Today’s poem from one of three sites that share a poem each day is “Invocation” by Hans VanderHart on Poetry Daily.