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)