Your Poetic Birth

Through my years
its always been
one of my fears
to have my poetry
fall on deaf ears.

I am a fountain
you have only to hear me and drink.
Taste these words as water and think.
While I live to find the right words.
What is a poet that can’t be heard?
I feel like a man screaming
in a sound proof room.
Looking for the right words to open the door.
Words you have and haven’t heard before.
I feel like the Hoover Dam.
Dry cement on one side
with Ocean title waves on the other.
Inspiration invades my dreams
like a roller coaster ride of screams.
Surviving earth quaking epiphanies.
I should be in a hospital attended by nurses.
I’m awakened with hole paragraphs and verses.
Complete poems ready for print.
I’m like a race horse chopping at the bit.
My legs are shackled
but I still need to sprint.
I wanna stand on a rock
and scream at the world.
Please!  Can anybody hear me!
Poetry’s  ponderous tree
 
has fallen in the forest
and shook the earth.
Do you remember the day,
you spoke your first poetic verse?
Was it written in ink
on a piece of paper?
Spoken out loud on a stage.
Expressing a gift for all your worth.
I ask you, 
Do you remember the day,
of your poetic birth?

Copyright © Robert Kinard | Year Posted 2019

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