The poems come from
places without basis.
Secretly, mysteriously,
like prima facie cases.
Some fall flatly on their face,
others sing "Amazing Grace."
Some fail, flailing faintly,
others sail, nail me greatly.
Most of them mix in-between.
Enter into Secret Streams.
The poems come from
profound experiences,
singled sonnets, petty dalliances.
Some rise solemnly,
like the Sears Building,
others sink incredibly,
distinctly non-spine tingling.
Three push mediocrity
back to where it's suppose to be.
Secret Streams are public poems,
if only for some secret Streamers.
Secret Streams are written for
old friends known as dreamers.
People who, for reasons varied,
choose a book of poems to be
additions to their libraries.
People who, by circumstance,
are on this person's mailing list.
Poems are secrets,
while they're written.
Then they enter print description.
Once that happens
all of us are Eric Claptons.
Anyone can publish,
anyone can rhyme.
My life, in fact, is proof of this,
I do it all the time.