I Am the Sentence Lost Poet
I am the sentence lost poet who has forgotten names
hollow versions of imposter me with little left to crawl
inside the words. My life is shaped by subtle arts stripped
from the mirror of reflected lives – tribes of non-poets
nonetheless so sensitive and fevered with promises
endless beginnings – seeds and eggs - the future of
great intentions – all the while roughing it in urban
virtual realities shaping what is left - this ghost of poetry…
I am a tongue-tied sycophant who reads in awe the riddles
and flights of Charles Wright the forests of Atwood the
ligaments of Don Domanski and daily morsels everywhere
I am the diarist biographer of lesser fates my multiple lives
adding to one and yet and yet
this place is rife with roots and webs connections and
comparisons that pull understanding far beyond all sight
I live a moment high in flight while darkness dies
tonight the poet’s moon is a silent solitaire while we children
of the gods bleed within nightmares and plagued famines
the ying and yang – brief lives balanced by eternities of death
it is the puzzle of the ages with belief to break the cycles down
life is indeed too short to fight when wealth is all around
we are impaired by peers and popularity
we need the stars to burn inside ourselves
we need the stars to make our aim more true
we need the stars to shine I need to shine
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