We on Hello Poetry
and all sites of poetic nature
are a family.
We Bond with the best
Poe, Dickinson Whitman
Frost, Platt and Cummings
All those whose heart
expelled masterpieces
that world celebrates.
Who know how to tame the written word.

We are all lion tamers
where are pens are whips
and fortitude outweighs fear.

Grand Family, move over
I the poet is born
growing stronger everyday.

Move over for I claim
my place as you hug me
in ethers of forever.

The rest of the world
just doesn't see me yet.
But they will. They will.

Slipped the whole way to the train,

Acted and taught about what it means to be you,

Walked over lakes back from the train.

Inside curtain of wind,
senses rise and focused mind
begins to hear.
Stream of song reverberates,
as music of breath balances heartbeat.
As vibrant twinkling stars lead thoughts
into pastures of lighted clouds.

Sleep eludes.
while words tumbled off finger tips,
and road to poem starts
its pulsating journey.
They circulate,
as if air particles are filled
with jargon untouched by human mind.

“Who speaks in yonder hall
of prism faceted mind?”
I ask at 3AM
when many sleep?

Is it Shakespeare's shadowed form,
as guide perched in realms unseen.
He echoes a “to write or not to write,
that be the question.”
He tickles senses
to awaken breath with,
“he who writes harbors gold.”

Or  could it be Hemingway
who invites self to dance
amid sprinkle seedlings of a vision
to paint on a rainy night.

Perhaps it’s Poe a grand puppeteer of words,
who once lived in human form.
A talented soul in matrex of universe
who wishes to share
with transfusion to tweak my prose
with Ravens song.    

Maybe its an alien who stops a while
in earths space
to reveal message for those
craving wisdom half awake.
A message to move as pioneer
everyday celebration
of ones sacred self.

Inside stage of moment
even the bird sleeps,
and crickets hibernate on winter night.

Inside the solitude of
gentle sparks of creative energies
fingers dance.
They march on
tapping into holding tank
of language
meant to deposit on page.

Alas time moves on,
as daybreak hints to arrive
and moon slowly ascends
biding farewell.

As undercurrents of sound
shift and writer guides ceases to feed
with their divine song.

As I bid thee fine reader good day,
and my cavorting fingers rest
making way for self to return to sleep pastures.

Till we meet again
parting is such sweet sorry.

Once upon a midnight,windy,
Graveyard heavy, tombstone weary,
Rose a man of great renowned-
The writer of which works can be found
Classroom sat in many a volume galore.
As the news and folk declare-
The dead whose lungs again took in air,
The writer who now stood before-
T’was Poe (and raven) of “Nevermore”.

“So if it be daemon, omen, curse or hex-”
In deciding action next, he spoke forth these words of old,
“I have been given further morrow, time of which furthers my sorrow,
Yet if I may this new life borrow- borrow perhaps to bring prose more-
In the hope,to continue prose more-
Pen to paper I’ll restore.”

Many a night spent struggling to create rhymes anew,
Edgar realized how language had changed,
For **** no longer meant to slay, and his beloved had turned to bae!
On his desk the perched bird had flown-
To say these words in had it flown-
Quoth the Raven “Just use Rhymezone.”