Ars Poetica

Those early poets scribbling lines in blood

on rock and leaf -- left nothing

to doubt or interpretation.

The gods, they knew, were fickle,

quick to seethe but, easily soothed.

 

In their wake other minds woke -- found meaning

in the well of obfuscation -- a red barrow

became the devil’s pushcart, Nyx’s ferry-crossing

their once in a lifetime limbo to somewhere out there.

 

And so the divine soon soured, wearied

and wary of their ungrateful spawns,

packed up and swam away into the cosmos --

leaving us nothing but the mundane day-to-day existence

to draw from the blood of trees and stones.

Ken e Bujold

Reviews

[Red Brick Keshner]

Hey Ken, here is a thoughtful examination of the shifting nature of poetry and inspiration, offering a rich and layered reflection on the interplay between the divine, creativity, and human existence. Superb composition 👍🏻🕊🙏🏻
Freds.

[Ken e Bujold]

thanks F appreciate the time and review

[Red Brick Keshner]

You are welcome K 🙏🏻🕊👍🏻
F