Why, Poetry?

Like a vintage love letter,
so fragile to open,
admire its beauty for what it is.

As you read,
use your voice first.
How and why does it
relate to you?
Then instinct takes over,
What was the Poet trying to say?


Poetry written
is a soul encased in a locked box
of words and those who understand
it,
can see through
that person’s eyes.

 

 

Nobody’s Poet

I lived as Hemingway, writing and drinking
with cats around me.
I’ve sobered and said my, “Farewell to Arms.”
What? Were you expecting, “The old man and the sea?

I was paranoid like Poe, always looking over my shoulder—
and over the facade I wore.
Finding tragedy in beauty, I wrote, and I wrote—
embracing this, “Nevermore.”

I’ve traveled like Twain,
only to stop a few years later.
Sounding artsy to impress the masses,
which came from a guy who tripped over the equator.

I went silent like Frost, my hand interpreting
the voice in my head.
Deciphering things around us, simple and complex,
became the path I chose instead.

I’ve lived the dreams of others, perhaps I found my calling
and didn’t know it.
For now and until we meet again

Forever yours,

Nobody’s Poet.


This is a throwback poem from my first blog. Hope you enjoy it!