One, two, three–
send a poem down to me. . .

Four, five, six–
blow a candle,
make a wish. . .

Seven, eight, nine—
send me breath
along with rhyme. . .

Finish off
with count of ten,

and break it loose
where it’s some use–
not just to me,
but, too, to them.

let it rest. . .

let life put me
to the test,

so I may fall
onto my knees
and pray I may
come to receive
at least
one other
verse again.

With any luck,
it will be me,
(not so much them)
to be the very first
no longer for my songs to thirst,

and thus to be
the privileged one
when enough’s
been poured
into my cup,
then gets to say,

Wait! Stop!
No more!

Because, for me,
my poetry
defines that land
that speaks what’s true,
through real life and fantasy,
that tells the tale
of where I was,
as well as where I want to be,
added to
where I am now,

which, more or less,
is where you are,
he is, she is, they are,
we are,–
I and thou–

all women, children,
rocks, trees, creatures,
germs and earthworms,
mice and men,

the tale
of the world
where I’ll emerge
to be that
yearned-for, destined star,
I came to be,
I know I am,

though I know not
how this will pass. . .

but that is now. . .

And I know
I will know

This entry was posted in Poetic Musing (Longer Poems), Poetry, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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