Perhaps we should be displayed in art museums like oil paintings of old, frozen unthawed, cracked and flawed and still people would come and speak in hushed tones, and stare at the wonders hanging there,
prevented from touching while clutching to heart beauty understated,
perhaps poets too, should not be touched but venerated?
Yet the warmth that emanates from human touch is divine,
the driving force so sublime it curls our hair, and heats the core that powers the engine that drives the brain, yet love can drive a man insane.
For who can foretell fate, calm warriors, cry for the dead,
compose prayers, while filled with dread?
Who can woo and cajole and make us smile,
and always trudge the extra mile?
Who reads for presidents, dictators and kings? POETS
Will we become rich, nay but love comes swiftly, along with kisses,
as submissively our voices rise, and touch the skies, in hallelujah or reprisal.
So keenly we feel, while blood runs hot, our words spill freely
and never stop, crimson and heady like the finest wine,
our implications caress, express emotion and manipulate the mind.
We create scenarios wondrously beautiful or horridly wicked as well;
bowers of velvety flowers, or flame licking bowels of hell
Still the followers bring praise and accolades, and vie for our attention,
while some turn and jab us, with pointed barbs to stick in bards filling us with apprehension.
Sometimes we lose ourselves for hours, or days, in thought and deepening haze, allaying the fright of deepest night, for who are we should we lose the love of our fleeting, and ever teasing muse?
Thought unsought, words play as we prey on hearts of men
and then again, the Ave Maria, sangria, and drops of blood,
entwining hearts and limbs in hymns of praise and endless love.
Sage minds grow melancholy, tiring of folly.
should we abstain, feel pain and never write it down,
be proverbial clowns living a life turned upside down?
I'd rather be planted in the ground. What of You,
could you give it all away, this mainstay of our lives
each and every day? Are we mad, if so I'm glad
for mad is better than bland?
To poets across this earth I extend my hand
strike up the band, unfold the banners saying
Aren't Poets Grand?
To our critics I say stow it,
there is nothing better than being a poet.