they come at me:
delicious word bombs
that drop into my days
drip sweet, messy explosions
so that i say more
than i should, lots that i shouldn’t,
and, shell-shocked,
shatter the foundations
i’m tempted to surrender
all the rest
(the work, the bills, the dishes)
to these whistling love torpedos
that demand my attention
and ignored, only escalate
all my restlessness
they are seductive gifts—
presents of presence—
deceptively tight
little word ribbons
that need to be untied
to unwrap
a mood, a story
a rage, a longing
like this lazy little missile today:
6:42 am
a cat on the bed
and a delivery
that arrived, lodged
in my head
(the work, the bills, the dishes
can wait)
A poem about poems—which I usually hear before they become words on a page.
Some arrive quietly, asking me to wait for life to reveal more before they’re ready to finish. Many arrive loudly, demanding that I pay attention. I do! 🫡
Anything can spark a poem:
It’s all poetry.
IMAGE: Pongstorn Pixs
© 2025 WILD YOGA AFRICA
