the last time he went out of
his mind he liked it
so much there
that he never came back
not even after the
alcohol left
his blood
he keeps writing to this day
......
Not oblique,
something unclear
not with words grandiose
a calling to write clear and terse
Poetry, beauty
in the straightforward
message from God
the words I hear in my heart
......
As I stand, a poet in an ocean of words,
Unspoken feelings, unheard verses surge.
What is this craft, this calling to write?
Is it light for others or my own plight?
I pen the tales of others, the struggles they bear,
Yet each word I write is a weight I wear.
To live, to serve, to break free from norm,
A poet’s life—a perpetual storm.
......
there was a new guy in the park
among the homeless
He arrived just after the mayor had
eradicated all
the tents and improvised huts
and it was easy to spot him
He was the one who
always had a book in his hand, always
......
the little building was made of
wood
though it looked sturdy
enough
the high windows were barred
and he could only
see part of the girl’s face
as she called out to him from inside
......
A soul’s cry, released in words—
chosen, picked, woven in quiet longing.
And there, in articulation, beauty finds its form...
The soul, unbound, bridges a gap, touching both heart and mind.
As I stand, a poet in an ocean of words,
Unspoken feelings, unheard verses surge.
What is this craft, this calling to write?
Is it light for others or my own plight?
I pen the tales of others, the struggles they bear,
Yet each word I write is a weight I wear.
To live, to serve, to break free from norm,
A poet’s life—a perpetual storm.
......
it wasn’t morning yet
but he woke up
to the sounds of cheering
and applause
He looked around
and saw
shadowy figures with
elongated faces
and bright, white eyes
......
there he was
arriving on main street
carrying a backpack
and a suitcase
both stuffed with
papers
“WELCOME TO THE TOWN
OF FORGOTTEN POETS.”
......
there was a new guy in the park
among the homeless
He arrived just after the mayor had
eradicated all
the tents and improvised huts
and it was easy to spot him
He was the one who
always had a book in his hand, always
......