no poet, am I
poet, you called me?
oh no - that’s not I ...
there's truly just ONE
he writes ‘pon the sky
of sunsets and stars
of space without end
with bold dazzling ink
from a masterful pen
rhymes of dust devils
cloud anvils and rains
mists from the moors
or wind-tickled plains
meadows a-blooming
or snow-crusted peaks
odes made for sunrise
with blush on its cheek
a green flash, auroras
the comets and moon
intense constellations
that rollick and swoon
bright, stabbing bolts
to pierce a night’s sky
huge, spiraling storms
with a sun in their eye
the sonnets He writes
are authentic and true
surpassing the greatest
my words can construe
and yet every-so-often
He’ll bless this old fool
to impart me the grace
and make me … His tool
so, I'd love to take credit
but I must keep in sight
that I'm just an aged pen
with which He may write
thus, I might seem poetic
for the tales that I've spun
but regarding TRUE poets
there's really ... just ...
ONE.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, May 6, 2024 (rewrite)
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