What Poets Know

What Do Poets Know

If I can’t be the poet
Then let me be the pen
Let me feel the weight of words
The curves the edges of their skin
To know the aching joy of language
Lovemaking with truth. The whispered sigh
Turned to life unfolding growing long after
The pen runs dry. There are other pens in the world
Poets are harder to find

Do the poets know?

Do they listen somehow? Do they
Write into the dark? Throw life at the stars
To forget they ever loved the taste of bitter ink
The bloodless paper. The hopeless reach
Into the cluttered bag of itinerate kings
Snake oil salesmen ask tyrannical debts
For the taking from collective noise

What part do I play in this story?
Maybe the narrator maybe not the creator
Maybe just the witness, the Salieri
To life’s colorful Mozart
Unguarded I often find my heart skin soul
Tattooed into Celtic crosses foliated lines
From fallen fragments of the divine behind
The disappointingly human

Daughter of Eve

Altered 2_Cropped with effects


She’s strong enough to hold herself down
To tie her own hands for sin
Begin again. Begin again
Absolve her. She’ll never fly. Her hands are tied
She carries the words that pin her down
Like Arthur’s sword in sacred ground
She has tied her hands for sin
Begin again. Begin again

When Lost…

When Lost...

She travels with her opened box
(only a script)
Between dueling images
Her greener grasses
To learn two sides will make a whole

A hole where the world sleeps
While she picks up the pieces
To find lessons like rain they fall

In Fall when her dreams come
(mainly sanguine)
Between dueling images
To master the contents of her gift






Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑