Tip of the Iceberg
Poetry is glacial stone,
Knowing not familiar shore.
All mindful scrawling grows
Upon that rock that was before.
Critics cleave the living ice,
Delving porous thought.
Budding ice emerges;
Ancient prose freshly wrought.
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Dignified Scrawling
Whilst kings wear tawdry things
Of which the jovial jester sings,
True ‘men’ strut simpler raiment.
Amethyst and pearls
Befit whimsy earls;
Dignity is validity
In intent.
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Sumptuous Metaphor
Poets start with marble slabs,
Raw reagents of imagination.
Their masterful chisels of language
Scrape from thought creation.
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Prologue
Why write of flavorful flowers,
Or sunsets infused with wonder?
Senses dilate by such powers,
Swelling like lightning’s thunder.
Such grandeur permeates all,
But blundering eyes fail to see.
Thus poets to paupers call,
And guide the gibbering sea.
The irony and poignancy of
Crushed clovers by the walk;
How light’s myriad dance above
Makes golden a peregrine hawk.
Poets with profound beauty are in love,
Scribing life’s magic forever thereof.
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Ponderings, I Suppose 