Cynical Musician Poet Blank verse

Thoughts

Thoughts plucked like red roses
On a page in black-blue smudges
In agreed upon meanings of characters
In arrangement of sounds and syllables
 
So that hat is the thing that lays upon the skull
And not the fire that lives within it
That transforms the desolate page to be a beacon
A beacon for shared words and ideas to resonate
To reflect on common understandings of life or what we think it may be
 
On this page
I can share thoughts
I can share thoughts that have no form until spewed
I can share with the hope of being understood
Of other eyes and ears that accept the carefully constructed connotations
The rhythms inside rhythms with feet that march with the unseen drummer that leads
 
Or the visions
The cloud-like froth of breath on windows overseeing snowflakes’ descent
The shimmer of heat rising from the summer concrete after a child’s chalk invasion
 
These sounds and sights that somehow tickle the back of the throat like carbonation
Causing that spray of warmth up the nostril convincing the head of a pleasing bouquet
A bouquet of cinnamon swirled around vanilla in a mug with gentle mists of aroma
 
These senses we share enable us common understanding
The poet then, perhaps is the conveyor of thought in puzzles
Puzzles of sights, sounds and sensations that turn the abstract concrete
 
Originating from an unformed electron
Neurotransmitting into fingers or tongues
Then coming to rest in their desired targets
So that I and you become us
And we understand one another which makes us all feel better in the end
Do you think?

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