Email Poem

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Poem

If passion speaks beyond self-centered will,
if stones may cry aloud because a man 
keeps silence, or if whispers wash the mind 
as storms in springtime will refresh the earth,
then it is poetry  that feeds our hearts.

At birth it is a soft caress that would
protect and nourish thought in gentleness,
to draw from deep within, a song that prose
could not express, a sigh devoid of art
that art alone may sing,  
the singer but an instrument, 
and that of conscious awe.

All  this, and still demanding to be heard,
for if it were not so, we would not know
or speak of poets; wars might then 
be just regretted or dismissed as lost 
for lack of strategy; arms would 
be taken up for power alone 
and men would then survive
in shallow grief, insouciant within,
a tired state of lethargy, where no one 
ever cares.

The powers of heavenly places may be thanked,
for muses dwell upon Olympus, not
within the hell of circumstance,  or haste,
or juvenile romance--
for there is power indeed when insight travels 
where the lofty giants led 
and left upon their pages, majesty, 
and bled, and wept, and gave us beauty 
that device alone could only try to emulate, 
and fade away.
           ~

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