On Walt Whitman’s Birthday, I Felt Like A Witch


The last day of May and

not a ice cream cone in tact.

It’s like it’s someone’s birthday;

a celebration song of myself

as Walt Whitman said, where the  

“Houses and rooms are full of perfumes”.

Not unlike a ghost or a magnet, I say that

absence makes the perfume smell stronger.

Chemistry can be without material

while words can be meaningless and forgettable.

Because nothing smells better than a reunion.

This makes me gaze up after stuffing my face

With distractions to ask you –

What’s more important?

The life of a child or the life of a rare gorilla?

Mothers never lack conviction.

To Whitman, he knew nothing else but miracles.

Poets have a magnetic way

of making a celebration out of nothing,

like ice cream and perfume and evolution.

So why do I feel like any moment

a house is going to drop on me

and I’m going to come out evil?


May 2016

Found poem: Inspired by Whitman’s poem, “Song of Myself” published in 1855



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