Not so!
It is the incense
Of the poet’s Soul
His breath of Life
His All,
Writing Poetry
Is a religious call,
A vocation,
‘Par Amour’
Out of Love
And Love, alone
A dedication, all its own
A cultivated flower that
You own,
Life’s discovery
Tone by tone
And if it stays with you
Poet!
The greatest treasure
You’ll ever own.
So much can be said in a Poem,Using practically no space,The golden worth of some poems,Is as fine as tightly spun lace
Working for all They can get,Their lives with our sweat to perfectBenefiting only, the governing classPeople in speeches receiving,Broken promises and poisoned flowersThat makes the Game offered,To decent, credulous voting foolsA scheming, totalitarian tower,Laced with the chains of much too much power.
Of the flickering lightOf a candle,Trembling in the night,Increasing our inner sight,Turning feelings,Into Light.
So much can’t be explained,The origins, depths of reason,Happenings, FeelingsSo many of Life’s strange dealingsWe live in a state of perpetual frightTrying to get things rightAnd not succeeding.Writing, reading, thinkingLike imprisoned hamstersGoing round and roundOn that, cruelest of wheelsIn most miserable cage,Going no where,Leading sometimes toDeep inner rage,But never opening, totallyLife’s great Mysteries,And fathomless, secrets.Are…
Verbal Venom should be kept,In a special Vial,And not dispensed haphazardly.If not, after a while,It loses all efficacity.
And take you to placesDeliriously, bannedExcitingly, highWhere words become feelings,And love is just greatAnd there is no healingBecause there’s no hate.
