Poets tend to
keep an eye on life,
the world is a veritable,
verbal soup to them,
their souls are dreamcatchers
sifting through the chaff,
seeking only the perfect grains
from where their heart is turned to lead.

Spending hours
with creative powers,
discovering ways to phrase,
the kaleidoscope center of a tulip,
soft coos of a baby cuddled
unabashed tears on the face of a
hardened veteran returning home…
and the godawful ache beneath
one’s sternum when love fades.

Thier pupils hold studied Irises,
not just purple blurs
along a garen path walked,
but each bloom spotted
becomes a metaphor
for some act of literal growth.

They hold great responsibility
in the grip of a pen in hand,
for hearts are moved by poetry
minds can be changed
movements created with
just a series of measured
strokes of genius writ.

It is a curse and a blessing
to view the world in
an 8 by 11 inch space,
always composing thoughts
amidst sorrows or beauty,
but the joy comes in the blanks
that are filled with pure expression.

I am resigned to being a poet,
and I will re-sign again and again
the works my muse
so graciously grants me,
then read them often
in the wee hours
and smirk a bit
at my profound legacy.


by-MFB III