I write my poetry in the bathtub,
more than one hundred sonnets; i like baths.
I promised pop i'd write, and there's the rub -
what one does comes from the heart, not oaths.
The best part of work is how it feels done . .
not declarations made before one starts.
I listen to my heart - no place to run,
transmuting sense and events into the "arts."
From words, i've learned pop cared not for swearing,
though my liege; oaths aren't needed to grow trees.
You show them sky and how to seek moistening;
if karma smiles - roots sink, branches bring bees.
Is this poem's persona bees, trees or son . ?
Does it matter ? we shared a soak - what fun . !
jts 072714
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