The Poet’s Life

Word-ly indulgence,
ink stained to points on page,
through stumbling against grammar tossed
about the moment’s cage,
yet rolling in a wavelength’s hum,
and toiling not to spread the sum
‘cross horizon’s once thought flatter,
when prior sought beneath the banter
of words in greens and golds.

No care to which the lay be splayed,
twixt lame and grand, the pointings stayed
in temporal pinnings of pulp and ink,
there draw the mind to swim or think,
or sink in depths of wonder,
sustained in plex or conscious raised,
be true the moment’s ponder
in ricocheted allure, be grazed,
thereby strike a hold.

So there ye be in locks of flux,
ether’s words and pictures such,
so plant a moment’s memories’ brand,
beyond the temporal, beyond the hand
within the setting sewn.
Hold fast a pleasant memory,
transfix the beauty, extravagant,
derail the poised and wreckless day,
through-in, through-out the stitching lay
a calling to this pause,
just to thyself be known.

By frost on twig at morning’s break,
‘neath streetlamp’s hollow shadow, staked,
between the blades of grass on hills,
around each raindrop’s dewy feel,
the words of poets play.

By rush of feathered wings in flight,
twixt cannon roar and lightening strike,
between the muddy toes of sows
who gently whisper verse to cows,
are where his thoughts do stray.

Yet most of where his writing drops
takes vantage from these mountaintops,
where two feet on the ground are sure
that heaven’s head-high, and breathing pure
when larger than the prairie stands
just meager page and ink in hand
that no framing mind can catch –
or play the point against a verse,
just smear and scratch,
blow smoke and curse –
cast nets in words and lay…

Be cast of moment’s tempest flare,
when conscious thoughts engage with care,
that every dewdrop known,
every piney needle sewn,
elixir quaffed within, without,
in stillness, poet’s heart cast out
in gentle calling of thoughts to sum,
of alpine breeze and ridges run,
so garner back what’s his.

Midst objects be, in field of view,
his colored ether returning,
to define the tint of moments grasped,
focus hue and shading fast
the dream he calls his own…

… between his words
his soul be shown…
… the poet’s life is this…

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