Thy Name Is Poet
Some poets write with a rapier blade,
meaning to cut a thing down
to its bare-boned ism.
Others write of fanciful affairs with a voice
as silk is,
to a fair maiden’s slip.
Some write from the void (the out world expanse)
of truth and secret gatherings
of white wind warriors!
Some write of the gut wrenching horrors
of abuse, pain, and mutilated soul;
where every word written is a cathartic expulsion
of venom from veins -
a bleeding of the darkness within, meant
for the healing of self and others.
Yet, others write of the red beating pulse of love!
with the force of eternal motion,
in one long unstoppable exhaled breath (the fall of time
standing still);
of holding ones breath in
either tortuous blue-faced death, or the splendor
of knowing the everlasting meaning
of one.
Other poets write their fingertips;
a caress felt with a lead tipped touch,
(for they are the ones whose minds
have stolen heart –
replacing it with the numb of page)
their only place of refuge,
for pages do not scorn, nor look in places
where they aught not look (where love dies).
Some write simply what comes:
from the breath of a new day on their lips,
to the touch of a kindred spirit’s words
upon their heart - to make sense of a memory,
or share something discovered –
an epiphany
yearning to spread.
No.
Parchment just wishes to be stroked,
no judgments made unto its scribe –
only love, only love…
Some poets paint their words –
A union both exact and beautiful –
where visions blossom within the mind
instead of on a canvass.
These inner pictures rise from the garden
of each poet’s depths;
each beheld a little differently, than the next
soul to read, the poets eyes.
There is no other form of art that can bring souls together,
from any age, life, reckoning or century,
like the written word.
We write each others lives,
for we are of our maker’s words.
One breath upon first parchment, wrote
one word within the stars –
Poet.
For, we here are all bringer’s of truth;
spreaders of seeds (for good or otherwise)
we are all extensions of the whole –
the will of God, Gods, Earth and all that is,
reaching out with verbal arms
into souls that wish to be SEEN!
To be understood! To be heard!
And so we write.
Thank the heavens above,
we write.
© Kristin Reynolds 2008
Copyright © Kristin Reynolds | Year Posted 2008
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