The Poets Point of Separation

A disbanded little colony of wacky souls ensues: Some will head to the high purple hills and live in caves. They will bring cranberries and beets to crush up and make paint with. They will use horse hair brushes to write their words on the cave walls for future cave dwellers. Some, will make the long trek down to the sea. They will bring sail cloth and hollowed out birch trees and construct fine boats to set out on the blue. Once past any site of land, they will take empty oyster shells and redeposit pearly orbs in them, now wrapped in silk ribbons with words of poems written and bled on them with Indian ink. They will plunk each one to the sea, watching them sink as white stones past the line of sight, to the sweeping sands below. Others, will head to the plains. Cowboys to horses and tumbleweed hats. They will ride to the point of exhaustion just to locate a piece of land that has never known human feet. After setting up camp, fire burning the smoke signals of life, they will sing their words to the coyotes and the night birds. Still others, like me, will retreat to the land within. Storing up words and prose, muttering rhyme in the shower toward upward twisting steam. Eating a breakfast of oatmeal, but living my life's thoughts through the eyes of an old man I saw briefly on the street the day before. This wacky band of expression analysts. Each as unique as the lands they will travel to: The consummate lover. The philosopher. The artist. The photographer. The misfit. The wonderful, blow your mind, every time, embodiment of inspiration. A colony about to disband - to cover the earth in rhyme.