#poemaboutpoetry
I hold a poem in my palms
And stare at the tiny letters on the page
The words lift from the thin white sheet and float ahead of me
Circling around me like a flutter of butterflies
The words drop back into the page
And i'm left feeling moved
And suddenly I want to be as polished as the words on that thin white sheet
So I pick up my quill, and began my own wonder
The ink rolls on the page
Until my hand stiffens
And my mind drifts
And my pen glides on the thin white sheet all alone
Its comes naturally
Like a moth to a flame
So I write and I write
From sunrise to sunset
Dec 23, 2025
Dec 23, 2025 at 7:22 PM UTC
Before I’m gone, tell them that my story is mine and mine only. It is not the story for you to share and mix the lines around. That the story before I died was written in my poems, and in my poems only. My poems are my story.
My poems are my life.
So if you want to share my story then you shall share my lines.
Jun 24, 2025
Jun 24, 2025 at 12:59 PM UTC
A man in a field walks through a storm.
Snowflakes on his eyelashes blur his vision.
A man in a study believes in snow,
believes in the truth of snow.
A man leaves traces as he walks.
His tracks ornament the field’s blank.
He meanders, doubles back, evading,
leaves imprints that the snow erases.
A man walks. The snow falls.
In a study, a man devotes himself to snow.
He reads from the book of snow.
He composes wintry axioms.
“Snow: Atmospheric water vapor frozen into ice crystals
that drop on a walking man’s eyelashes
or lie blank in an unwritten field.
“Snow is a conflict,
a confusion, a yearning.
Letters are desire.
Margins are melancholy.”
The storm disappears.
A man squints at blurred words,
Resumes writing,
Shaking snow from the page.
Apr 14, 2019
Apr 14, 2019 at 6:42 AM UTC
We lay naked
in a blank room
unable to move
or speak
and yet
Colors
Vivid, brilliant colors
Dancing
to sounds
only we can hear
The only source
is our inner most thoughts
and our deepest emotions
We are poets
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 2:08 PM UTC
The Presumptuous Poet
(Written for a monthly gathering of poets at The Wordsworth Trust)
in Grasmere, Cumbria, The United Kingdom
Am I a presumptuous poet?
I asked myself
(Through the mouth
Of an imagined
Proper poet
To this ear of
A possibly presumptuous poet)
Some, I fear
(Maybe someone here)
May find my efforts at poetry
Presumptuous
Plebian
Pedantic
Or simply
'Proper poor'
Especially
In this holy
And enchanted
Lakes and Mountains Mecca Land
Where words seem to be worth more
Maybe I need to be
Cautious
Consider my station
And call myself a
Wordsmith
Instead of 'a Poet'
Sean Hunt November 30 2015
Windermere
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 5:46 AM UTC
The word 'Masturbatory'
Is rather naughty,
Using it
Doing it
Talking about it
But it's perfect poetry
And I know
I need to use it
To describe
Some poetry.
Anything longer
Than a page
Is in grave danger
Of having that label
Slapped
On it!
Sean Hunt
Windermere
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 5:42 AM UTC