Advice from an Older Poet

Never write a poem

when you are hungry.

Much like a grocery

run—the bill is

thrice the price

when you are famished.

Your potatoes

a bag of boulders

on your back.

Never paint a landscape

while you’re starving.

The willows will be

leafless—not because

it’s winter but each green

the look of sage,

and you envision it as

season for your trout—

which will multiply

profusely in your river—

that pretzels through the

canvas peacock blue.

Every fowl’s fare

with an empty gut.

You will morph

the stones to bread. Like Jesus

had He yielded to temptation.

And not just any loaf will do.

Naan that’s soaked in saffron,

from the yawn of our morning

orb. Butter has never been better.

Your snow will salt the meadow,

which has suddenly

teemed with steers.

Acorns change to grapes so

you can wash it down the

gullet with Baco Noir.

Choosers need not be beggars.

Never let a rumble

be your muse.

You’ll come up with

half-baked verse, expect three

Michelin stars. Work a horse

into its stanzas

you’re so ravenous

you could eat.

Andreas Gripp

March 27, 2026

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