Wednesday, April 17, 2024

Monkeys with Typewriters

 We poets are all Monkey’s with Typewriters



In cages of flesh,

with fire of thought,

We tap at keys,

by instinct or whim.

A game of chance and rhyme,

An epiphany scrawled,

or gibberish hurled?

A Shakespeare sonnet ,

or monkeys' world?

Each word falls,

a puzzle laid,

A world created,

at our fingertips beat.

Poets write

because they have to.

Happy for bananas,

or praise

though money wouldn’t hurt.