The Poet

I follow the path of poets of old.

Their voices beckon me into the fold,

Many cut short in the days of their prime,

but nevertheless remembered in rhyme.

.

For somehow in the throes of death,

They cry out with mortal breath

“O kindred spirits, living or departed,

carry on the work I started.”

.

For aspiring poets share a trait,

a common tendency to emulate

to the point of near obsession

those who leave the headiest impression.

.

Now inspired to the point of distraction,

I write of comrades wounded in action

of rescues effected in countless battles,

mothers and children herded like cattle.

.

I do not know from whence it comes,

the cries of the dying, the pounding drums.

These are the things that came from before,

days long since gone, ages of yore.

.

I have no desire to write of such things

as flowers and trees and tiny birds’ wings.

In poetry books they have their place,

but me I will write, by the gift of God’s grace,

of karmic desire and brave young men,

journeys beyond and back again.

.

Written during my Wilfred Owen phase!

Copyright (c) 1998-99