They say that those who can’t, will teach, for lack
of skills to write, or reach an audience
composed of peers. I cannot make a rhyme
or poem that’s fit to print upon a sign
for marketing or just to read in spring
when love is freshly green and grown like grass.
So what else can I do but teach--explore
the modes, the forms, the lines of ever growing
little minds which as the metaphor of sponge
so captures all they’ve done or yet to do.
And yet I want to spread my wings and sing
about the lovely things that poets write.
I form the words and find the tropes that make
the images conform to what I feel
is true and natural yet still they lie
upon the page like fallen leaves in great
disgrace for once they lived in others’ hands
Where shades of colored meaning gave them life.
Upon the muses I depend for every
single word I write. I take no credit
for the gifts that Fortune gives with great
delight. The words which flow upon the page
show wisdom far beyond the grace of such
a poet as myself could offer here without their help.
Previously published in Creative Hearts, 2017