Ther Vine Keeper

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Tuesday, April 19, 2011

a poet . . .

a poet

he reached into his back right Jeans Pocket
and extracted the 2 sheets of unlined blank paper
he had neatly folded 3 times over
to make 8 almost perfect sections

he fidgeted and rifled through the remaining pockets
that of his pants
his shirt
and his jacket
for creation
and things
were speaking to him
yes, he was a poet

he never went anywhere unprepared
for what he dedicated his life to
he cared more for than life itself
his only aspirations were to listen
as the muses imparted the whisperings of existence
and beingness to him
yes he was prepared alright
yet at this very moment
he was scared he would miss the message
the scribe
that life presented for him to imbibe

you see he knew that all things spoke
a language in stillness
so he walked in that realm
lived in that realm
dreamed in that realm
breathed in that realm
where all was quiet within him
for he was attentively waiting
anticipating at all time
the birth of a new rhyme
or verse
or lyric
that he could capture
and give to others
that they could hear it
read it
feel it
be it
as he scribed it
on his neatly folded paper
he carried in his pocket

here outside of himself
and inside as well
he felt the overwhelming of his senses
there were no fences that could contain inspiration
and to his poetic elation

the sensations he experienced
were a sweet fruit of the soul
his soul
and that with whom he shared
so he dared not
no, dared not
go any where
without his paper and pen
for the fear of the sin he would commit
if life spoke to him
and he did not capture it
take it and give it
for his life he did commit
to being who he was sent here to be
you see
he was . . .
a poet

© 19 April 2011 : William S. Peters, Sr.

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