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Created on: December 15, 2009 Last Updated: November 21, 2011
On Westminster Abbey's Poet's Corner
Masons who once wrought words in the mortar of pen
Bricks of vocabulary, imagery, then
Built empires, felled governments,
Elicited laughter, and new testaments.
We, the poets stand and fall.
Stricken by genius, or opium's call.
Yet.
All gratitudes in two forms take,
One the repetition of lines so wrote
Other a Cathedral corner our rest promote.
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Poetry: Poets
Poet's Hands
Nonsensical these words that constant flow
As dewdrops from the morning sun
In whispers through the warming air
In elevated composition mostly in the abstract
from fact to non-fiction, light, grays, blues and blacks,
greater spirits shared
together, she was;
together, she was
an impression,
she is still
underneath is what
i am after
is it skill?
i really am
not certain
The Poet
The poet searches
for words, for rhyme
amidst church steeples
and dunghills,
in love's first kiss
and in the heartbreak
Voice
i am but a child myself...
one of many children
of the soil of this earth.
and with dirty fingernails
i've crawled this
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