Are Poets Blessed
Envy those who only view
the sun setting, in the setting sun;
who awe at pyrotechnic skies
but then forget 'til next July,
or in the surf that crashes shores
or hawks that ride the wind and soar;
who never start from sleep at night
to find a pen and pad to write
and in the loss of love and life,
don't have to find a place to write and cry,
drawn within a lonely sigh.
What we do, we do alone.
When inspired, we shun the loud;
seek solace from the boisterous crowd.
Is ours really a gift to seek?
Is our language so truly odd?
They smile, feign knowing, with a nod.
But in the end, I'd like to think,
when years have flown and I am gone,
a question's asked in a loving home,
"Whatcha doin' Josh"?
"I'm reading great Grandpa's poems".
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