Paul Willason Poet Free verse

The Ancestry of A Poem

I am not sure why some poems
manage to find air and live
whilst others barely catch a breath
and wither a few short words
from the pen. 

Others almost force 
their way out as if there was 
an inner pressure built up 
in the plumbing of the mind
to say something, to speak
a thought into existence.

There are those poems
that are almost involuntary, 
a reaction to an irritant lodged 
somewhere deep in the psyche, 
a hurt, wound or wrong held
for a lifetime before being
coughed up.

Some poems act like nets 
and try to gather in 
the strands of dreams 
and knit them into form. 
These are the poems of whispers, 
soft shadows and mists
that clothe the intangible.

There are poems born out
of love, the sublime that resides
in the human heart, speak
of joy and suffering, emotions,
what it is to feel in the vocabulary 
of being alive.

Then there are poems
that become wayside temples,
hollows cut into the masonry 
of the mind where the soul
stops for a moment and takes in
the universe reciting its own
infinite poem and authorship
is beyond name, measure
and circumference.

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