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.

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.

Poets start with marble slabs,

Raw reagents of imagination.

Their masterful chisels of language

Scrape from thought creation.



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.