My hands are raw and cracked like wind and wood,
My arms, they sway and dance all day in my boat,
My neck is sore from watching you, above me play,
You, great mountains of tree and stone, give me hope.

I know little of rhyme
Nothing of meter
My writings, barbaric
Don't express either
Part of poetry
As well as another
Someone more well-versed
In giving poems color
I use alliteration on occasion
Pauses to be dramatic
These little lacking lines I craft
Probably come off as erratic
Syllables be ******
Imagery imagined
Rhymes forced
One of the only poems I know
Is about a hearse
One that ominously rides by
Intimidating some unfortunate guy
Reminding him that he'll eventually die
Or those under the pen of Poe
Whose tales of distortion and woe
Are firmly engraved in my memory
As empty as blank verse
I sit here vexed and cursed
Trying to express my thoughts
My more artistic passion
Which just so happens
To be in a more archaic fashion
Than the others I admire and read
But I've never taken the time
To put poetry under a microscope to see
The framework that could lead the blind
Guiding and inspiring those who write poetry
And so I'm inclined, but don't really mind
Remaining forever in obscurity

Sometimes, writing is just
Ink on a page, splashes
Of black
On white, shadows cast
On light, something that tripped
And fell
Just happening
To form patterns
We recognize.
Sometimes, writing is
Different,
The ink - which never changes -
Mind you -
Seems to shine,
To leap beyond
Its page,
Like the sempiternal clouds
At the root of
The waterfall,
Tactile
Everywhere at once,
Obscuring your vision,
Causing your skin to
Bump,
And Prickle,
All the while
Filling your ears
With the white noise
Of water.
It's when writing is like that,
When it seems to breathe,
Where you might read it once,
Twice,
And between readings,
The meaning changes,
Somehow.
The writer's pen
Has been left behind,
Still the story lives on,
Like it should,
Like it deserves,
And sometimes it's a vast novel,
Sometimes
It's a poem,
With three lines,
Five
Seven
Five
And yet, for all their differences,
They are the same: Two
Living, breathing, scintilla
Sharing
Ink-and-paper
Heritage.

They say that God lives very high;
  But if you look above the pines
You cannot see our God; and why?

And if you dig down in the mines,
  You never see Him in the gold,
Though from Him all that’s glory shines.

God is so good, He wears a fold
  Of heaven and earth across His face,
Like secrets kept, for love, untold.

But still I feel that His embrace
  Slides down by thrills, through all things made,
Through sight and sound of every place;

As if my tender mother laid
  On my shut lids her kisses’ pressure,
Half waking me at night, and said,
  “Who kissed you through the dark, dear guesser?”