Tuesday, January 1, 2013


I feel middling happy about this poem, but I'm not sure of it's great, mediocre, or somewhere in between. Feel free to comment and tell me what you think.

Poets spend their days dreaming,
In idle bliss,
A drink in one hand,
A book in the other.
Some would say that we dream
Too much,
That we are lotus-eaters,
But I say we spread our pleasure
And our thoughts
To others who need them more.
Through poetry.
We do not say much,
And hide behind a shield of paper
When unwelcome strangers pass by and seek
the state of the weather.
But our innermost thoughts,
Our soul-musings
And secret exclamations,
Could astound the world.
Through poetry.
Contemplation is our name.
We seek to catch
and give to others,
the beauty of the world,
tricks of word,
wisdom unfolding.
We endeavor to capture forever
The quality of dawn
On a frosty lawn,
Or the tenderness of
A baby’s cheek, and love.
Our cares and trials
We mine for wisdom,
And make rags beautiful,
As was Cinderella’s dress.
It will not last.
All is over at midnight.
What we have,
What we have made,
Won’t last a week,
Nor even a day.
Through God’s eyes,
Lives are but sparks of praise
For Him,
Brief melodies, hymns.
We poets catch sparks despite time,
Despite age,
And nurture sparks into verdant fire.
We capture beauty
For the sheer joy of it,
The halcyon relief
To be found in dreams.

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