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

hurriedly

anxiously

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

totally

to being who he was sent here to be

you see

he was . . .

a poet

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