Whispering

My poetry as art won’t fly
And I’ll tell you the reason why;
It is not the least obscure.
Its point is plain, simple and pure.
One is as apt to miss the joke
As my Mom is to drink or smoke.
My poems reveal the things I’ve felt
When in prayer, perhaps I’ve knelt
Or wiping spills up from the floor,
Or finding toys behind the door,
As I sought a fallen dime
While my thoughts float by in rhyme
My poetry cannot be art,
It’s just a whisper from my heart.

© 11/27/89 By Lucille Falk Miller