Never heard of Bukowski.
Frost, Yeats, Whitman,
certainly Poe. Those guys;
and Dickenson, Browning,
later Plath and Angelou.
Mary Oliver, too. New and youngs
like Canuck Chica, Kaur.
Gone two decades plus six, old Hank,
who’d turn a hundred this year,
took hold of my poetry reading.
Also liking some Billy Collins
and Clive James. Tony Hoagland’s
pleasant prose and light but raunchy
poems been worth my time.
Poetry, a pleasure,
in the writing and for the reading,
yet brainy head scratchers
laced with metaphoric depth have
pride of place on a lover’s shelf.
Raw life, pain, and beauty without
pretentious creativity,
Old Buc’s art “is its own excuse.”
Look both ways,
to the darkness of shadows
and to the colors of light.
Mind the gaps of the matrix.
Our Literary Journey 
Soulful
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Thank you.
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Hes a hero of mine. Thanks for sharing friend xo
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You’re welcome.
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Wonderful poem, Bill and an impressive list of poets. Did you do the sketch?
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Thanks for saying so, Sue. Yes — I did the pencil sketch from a common photo of him.
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Great sketch, Bill! You need to add Artist to your resume of talents😊
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Thank you for saying so.
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