Three poets were walking down the street
Arm in arm in arm, in a state of grace,
A holy state of silence, all in an entranced embrace.
For as they gazed upon the earth's gifts,
Each called words to the fore, healers of rifts,
Each saw the same bounty, but oh so differently.
Lest their words collide,
They strode the streets smiling, undivided,
Chained by their tripartite touch, speaking nothing.
Smiling quietude at all the blessings observed,
They sensed each others's flow and struggle to serve,
To make the proper précis, of the universe within, without.
One saw thrones and rivers in the sky,
One fed us visions of his gardens, and the bird's tales,
One wrote what he saw, in words plain, as best he could.
What they could not see, not one,
They were a singular trinity, the world better for
Their gracious acceptance of the notion
That each one, saw the other as the poesy superior.
For poetry, if it is anything,
It is humility.
9:24pm
August 27 2013
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 9:30 PM UTC
Three poets were walking down the street
Arm in arm in arm, in a state of grace,
A holy state of silence, all in an entranced embrace.
For as they gazed upon the earth's gifts,
Each called words to the fore, healers of rifts,
Each saw the same bounty, but oh so differently.
Lest their words collide,
They strode the streets smiling, undivided,
Chained by their tripartite touch, speaking nothing.
Smiling quietude at all the blessings observed,
They sensed each others's flow and struggle to serve,
To make the proper précis, of the universe within, without.
One saw thrones and rivers in the sky,
One fed us visions of his gardens, and the bird's tales,
One wrote what he saw, in words plain, as best he could.
What they could not see, not one,
They were a singular trinity, the world better for
Their gracious acceptance of the notion
That each one, saw the other as the poesy superior.
For poetry, if it is anything,
It is humility.
9:24pm
August 27 2013
June 9th
Three poems were walking down the street
A young teenage girl,
A Professional Loser,
but life lessoned, and in possession
Of eagled-claws, and tongue razored sharpened
From gettin/givin acidic high school barbed kisses
(She maintained up to date put down lists),
Swooped them up, hers to imprison,
Framed them to be soully hers,
Purposed for skin restoration
during the wee hours of the
Crying Nights
A middle aged man, tired from failure,
Trapped tween lost rock n' roll dreams and
Unsuccessful retirement planning,
Suffocated by the hands of twixt and tween,
Grabbed the three, like a rock climbing hand-hold to
Take home when his family looks at him
Pathetically.
This grandfather espied them,
Looked liked old familiars, friends maybe,
But eyes/words, dimmed, disparu,
Memories unsorted, disordered, jumble-merged,
Perhaps the words to a song he once knew complete,*
But did he write that phrase, or was he just a poet
Thief?
The three poems went about their business,
Bringing heaven to earth,
FYI, even Angels can't be everywhere, so,
God invented poems to do his ***** work,
Cleansing souls.
They rode in~out of town on a prankster wave,
A cheering throng was not around,
But a singular poet saw, recorded the vision,
And thus, this nameless poet,
Below unmasked, unsealed,
Cleansed one more soul,
And that soul, this soul, as required,
Paid it forward.
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