though a young’un here,
wander, stumble through
old poems via crazy word
searches, and bumble~bump
into fabulous poets who have
not scribed in many ayear,
and the curiosity chomps me
big time, where do the poets
go,
when they without trace,
they disappear,
disparu sans laisser de trace
leaving behind poems that leave
me breaathless, eyes watery,
could not have all died,
but their spark that lit up skies
world over,
has been extinguished
impossible
cannot be,
perhaps they graduated
to more serious employ,
though know nothing better
than scripture of scribbling
a beauteous insights,
a pithy phrase
that rings the heart strings
in ways that leave you
gasping!
how
can you lose the
need,
urging,
compulsing,
sensation
to create
great?
how can it be,
late at night,
the kids put to bed,
the papers writ,
the bills paid
as best one can,
that the inner scream
becomes your
fingertips
to blow, spark, and drip
fulsome
words?
unheard,
requiring
witnesses,
Where?
is that ****
divine action,
when
so many have lost
that sparking
of
describing
the sparkling best
that life
provides?