Old Poet's Advice
“The purpose of poetry,”
wrote the man with a brazen manner,
“reveals truth with steady hand
to heighten our sense of life.”
His flowered mode of expression,
making a poignant impression,
calls for expanded understanding,
to heighten a sense of life.
His seeds of change fell on dry clay,
were trampled by shiny shoes,
swept by establishment's constant breeze
into the river of yesterday.
I wondered how one who knew despair,
whose closest friends were sorrow and strife,
who wore a brightly painted mask,
could heighten my sense of life?
And yet, he spoke convincingly—
demanding fresh enlightenment,
impelling me, compelling me,
to heighten my sense of life.
And then, a doubt crept through my door.
It challenged with a boldness,
beseeching, begging, pleading for
a pledge to hold the status quo.
But I will heed the poet’s call,
will plant his field of grain,
with no concern for pain or price,
then thrash his kernels on my floor,
and heighten my sense of life.
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