Artistry of Poetry
My pen is always near at hand, waiting
for my gentle grasp to give it the chance
to fulfill its purpose. It seems to be anticipating
being held as if we tango together in a ritual dance.
When I'm fueled with the fire to write
ink flows from my mind to my fingers—
from pen to paper as if I were a draper of words
and in each line of poetry my passion lingers
in the form and fashion I chose to write each day.
There is an elegance to the artistry of poetry,
using fabrics as soft and diaphanous as chiffon.
Romantic sonnets are sewn with silken threads
that weave together, both love and desire.
Haiku verses describe golden skies of dawn
as if the sun awakens each morning
as a phoenix rising amid orange flames of fire.
There are times when I'm driven to capture and extol
the glory I see when a fragile fern frond unfurls,
or the tremulous steps taken by a foal, only hours old,
the shapes of clouds as they billow and sweep
across the expanse of blue canvas as if they are pearls.
I have need to breathe life into the visions I keep
ready for words I'll leave behind some may never see—
as a legacy of my thoughts on life's joys and derision.
Oddly, I always feel some could use editing and revision.
My pen finds a way to blend my emotions,
where its ink can be droplets of shed blood or tears,
but never will it be choked off, replaced by AI.
I'm sure it would rather be thrown into an ocean's depth
before forgiving me and would rather its ink run dry.
I cannot fathom attaching my name to falsify
a poem I've not written on my own accord.
That's an accusation I will never have need to deny.
In shame, I would hang my head and ask my pen
to become a sword and in reprimand, cut off my hand—
a loss I could neither tolerate nor afford.
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