The poetry of non-sense

Three hundred and sixty five are the numbers of developments
from thoughts into words, verse flowing, crisp like morning
clever like using a thread to cut the world and extrapolate
the juice. Birth never happens without pain-
the baby is born out of procrastination, long hours of labor
ticking of clocks, like time bombs and anxious parents at the end of the
birth canal, submerged into awe.

babies are smooth, poetry isn't-
sometimes there's rotting in the rubble, crude, grey and green
some others there are just shadows, pigeons
 floating over the surface of a lake,
 hover low  to catch the coldest whirlwind into the clouds
hover high and frost might bite your wings
in poetry except moderation
when salting the wounds

For poetry does not grow alone,
poets send grace into space
and thanks regardless, for readers faithful as believers
and families, cast by blood, the generation of creativity
for the triple set of As on college desks, on whinging roads
on movies and short of library coffee
for the sacred and the sinful,
the flesh and the body
I, the owner of words dedicate the journey
of finding, losing, keeping

 For the greenery, mossy in you, my love
for the unknown knowledge I send my last grace, as for the world too:
thank you for paving my roads with thorns
but leaving rosewater on your hands for my wounds.

[and on a general note I'd like to thank my faithful readers for sticking up with my emotional poems from day one and never seizing to share verses and ideas, happy first anniversary to this blog and to all of you]

Lots of love and lots of cake