A Poet's Life For me.

 

A poet's life for me...

We sail through
a river of emotions
on a tiny white slip
of ground up trees,
with a pencil for an oar,
or a pen for a tiller,
making ripples in
the flow of languages,
cutting through them
swiftly and often
causing them to overflow....
all ordinary boundaries

We are but pirates
serving out our sentences
seeking the treasures gathered
from other peoples lives

We keep one eye
closed to the fear
that keeps others from writing
and expressing themselves.
We look for a hook
to draw the attention
of all who pass by hoping
they'll pause and simply study
our scratched out renderings
our graffiti of the mind

We find safe harbors in dreams
and spend idyllic moments there,
and then share our booty with any
who would enjoy perusing it
We turn the lines of the equator
into the lines of an equation....
equating life's sorrows, and joys
with words that sing, dance and move souls

We build bonfires in the hearts of men
and prance like drunken minstrels
around the feelings they
subconsciously share with us

It is good to be a poet....it allows
ones mind to travel and unravel
all of the mysteries of life
by simply moving across
an 8 by 10 " space
with a lead tipped sword

Our sails are the bending,
and the turning
of the pages of ur thoughts,
they allow us to soar
beyond the humble bindings
of daily drudge into
the imaginary realms of splendour.

Climb aboard, grab an Oar and dip it
to the empty white waters waiting below,
chart a course to verb island
stumble on a treasured thought,
add it to your priceless collection,
and if they hang you for your crimes
you will only be
another dangling participle
still giving meaning to life
as you gasp out your last breath.

Aye mateys,
poems are the
pebbles of the Gods,
they toss them in a flat arc across
the streams of our consciousness,
and watch gaily as
they skip and dance
with lilting joy
from our lips and pens.....

In the hold of my heart
many poems tarry,
and are cargo
for starving illiterates
seeking sustenance.

A glass of port wine,
a spark of inspiration fired,
some soft music,
a wanton women,
and a poem,
what else has any meaning,
what else has a
point at the end
that sets so well
................period.

©-MFB III

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Ralph Deeds profile image

Ralph Deeds 7 years ago

Again, a Dangerous Art

The brutal, desperate poetry of Frederick Seidel

http://harvardmagazine.com/2009/11/frederick-seide...

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