The Poet

What is it we poets do?

When ridden of time and energy

We think of some string of meaning

Of words which may or may not

Make sense.

And why do we butcher the human language

For the sake of unseen symbology,

For the sake of wit?

If it does not rhyme

Are you betrayed

If similes

Are not displayed?

Did you check the last words of each line

And judged on the results thereof?

 

Where do these ideas come from,

And why do the best poems get lost

Between concept and paper?

Or use words like interpretive dancers

(To splash a fish upon our gargled teapot,

Purple hazing misnomered fuzzies)

To inflate our intellect?

Or to compensate for the lack of purpose?

Why do some

Seem so damned weirdyoucanhardlyseewhattheysay

Unless you see through the eyes

Of the intended?

They are windows that the luniest onlookers

Dare not peer through.

 

And what do we do when we are done?

When we lean back after giving birth,

Making public the chaos of our mind?

Is it relief for having done away with the thought?

Or happinness for seeing it's beauty

Through the eyes of the creator?

So then why does it feel

As though we've already taken our child out back

And shot it?

 

And with the message told, what then?

Are we inspired to do great deeds?

Do we stand and fight against the unjustified

Or starve for the power of the pedestal

Fists thirsty for pens?

Or do we sigh to ourselves,

And pack the bag for school

Or the grocery job.

Later then, when we review our child,

A parent doting on brood,

A kiss on the cheek before we tuck them in,

We say to ourselves before our own sleep,

Things will change.

People will one day will have nothing

To hide themselves with

As though they are guilty

If they do.

And poetry may wilt

Like the disembodied

Emails in my

Inbox.

But I am alive.

 

Is it sorrow we see?

Or do we see the twisting of the hay

When the dews have long since lifted

And morning yawns to us

Like joy sputtering from a boiling kettle?

When corona mars our eyes to green sight,

And the indoors are spotted all funny,

And the cat rapes our feet of comfort,

And the meatloaf perfume becons our lust,

We are then happy.

 

When we feel it

You will read my mind

And feel it too.

 

When this poem is done

I will sleep.

Where will this poem be

When I have long gone?

Who will sit and wonder,

What was he thinking?

When he pruned this art,

What did he leave behind?

When he did not respond,

Was he not listening?

Because he did not move,

Was he going nowhere?

 

And I will say,

I did not write

for change.

Nor did I

For fancy.

I did

Because

I am

tired.

 

The poet

Like love

Just is

That's it.

Further looking

Warrants

Confusion.

 

I find I write better

When my heart

is hungry.

 

 

Reviews

[Poeticpiers]

an amazing string of words but to what purpose.Am I missing the point. Well presented in flawless poetic prose. But idid not get your message