(The poet and the objects)
The wind did a dance like an old romance
Giving flight to the flocks of birds
A sunlight shaft set the poet at his craft
Now he's carving up shapes from words
The pond did shimmer as the moon bounced a glimmer
To the music of the rustling leaves
The wordsmith smiled. His senses riled.
Now he's stealing all the rhymes like thieves.
Night sounds cut a glare as if spatially aware
And their essence made the stars shine bright
Like a lyric tirade he plied his trade
Spilling meaning on to canvas white
The sky made a play for the fallen down day
Wrapped tight in a leaf of cloud
He ate it whole and insatiable, stole
All the beauty of the trees lined proud
His face turned white
Teenagers in flight
Base jumping off the boulevard mounts
Yet his pen held neat
Poets never miss a beat
Lest they miss the chance to capture what counts
Mother nature smiled down at the writer on the town
At least someone was loving her work
That all this felt right - impulse jotting in the night
Made him homely where impostors might lurk
When the night and the man got tired, both ran
Though never from infinity's gaze
They're dancing alright
In a place just out of sight
In the shadow of your lovelorn days
The poet or the stuff?
Who's real ? Who's duff ?
Who's mighty in the midnight run?
It's the pen and the sword in poetic discord
Separation is unity's son.
......
Gk 25/02/12
