Ernesto P. Santiago Poet Dramatic Monologue

A Letter To Sir John Heck

To You, My Dear John

I am sending you, this epistle, through the wind
Passing, quietly, across the gentle seas of the gods.

I am a poet, not ‘cause I was born a poet, but I am 
A poet by sole virtue of what my aging brain sees.

And it controls me more often, than my contrite heart.
Is it pretty good or not, the mind first before the heart?

I have been sitting on this board for a year or two
And I have laid my emotions on forms: if not all,
 
On some of them. Oh by the way, I mastered none.
I managed though, to stand on the first step of the ladder

Of poetry, yet still, I err musing on foreign tongue I loved:
The wording, the punctuation, the grammar, to list a few.

As you read this, my contrite heart bleeds---
For I will never make it to the pinnacle of my passion.

Surely, I wrote to you, not because I am whining
Or maybe I am, but one thing I do certainly know

Is that I am sending you, this epistle, through the wind
Passing, quietly, across the seas of the gentle gods

To ask you, Sir John, the kind-hearted god of soup whisperers
Am I doing the right thing or I am just wasting my time?
 
Lastly, do you think to have come this far is an achievement?

Sincerely,
EPS
Your avid fan, across the gentle seas of the gods

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