Dear mr. Cole.
I allow myself
"Joe", with the deepest respect
For a man I barely know.
But I know...
You contain
Multitudes, no less than
Whitman. Supporting posting
Writers with the warmth
Of an all-loving Allfather; raining
And shining on seedlings sown
By poets of varying confidences.
Larger than any poet
Ever read
Is he who encourages writing.
Joe, yours is the hand that swats
The one that holds back the
Pen of the uncertain poet.
Your poetry reflects
Your garden, God's Creation,
The beauty within wild things
Growing...
And all that glory and grace
Of which you write,
My friend, our Joe.
Is all a mirror
Reflecting
Its beholder.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 11:07 AM UTC
Dear mr. Cole.
I allow myself
"Joe", with the deepest respect
For a man I barely know.
But I know...
You contain
Multitudes, no less than
Whitman. Supporting posting
Writers with the warmth
Of an all-loving Allfather; raining
And shining on seedlings sown
By poets of varying confidences.
Larger than any poet
Ever read
Is he who encourages writing.
Joe, yours is the hand that swats
The one that holds back the
Pen of the uncertain poet.
Your poetry reflects
Your garden, God's Creation,
The beauty within wild things
Growing...
And all that glory and grace
Of which you write,
My friend, our Joe.
Is all a mirror
Reflecting
Its beholder.
