Full grown poet

We  too worship  blades of grass
They are very  soul and essence.
O captain, my captain,of our seas
And on a hard ground, on a terra.
We are full-grown poets in diapers
But undulations send us crashing.

We  may hold on to  nature for life.
A big organic mess is  floating soul
And our gods  are  coloured kitsch.
We are  our dried  straws of  souls.
We  are helpless to wave in a wind.

(Remembering Whitman’s Blades of Grass)

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