Sometimes I sit looking out the window -

Not seeing.

A book on my lap – not reading.

The radio soft with song – not listening.

Or lying upon my pillow - not sleeping.

Just thinking.

Giving my brain free rein

To pursue its peculiar passages.

And this scope often spins into 'Poetry'

That esoteric web of human connection

Through millennia.

 

What is it exactly? Poetry?

Who writes it? And why?

Who is so driven to explore and express

The extremes of sensibility and existence

As only 'I' know it.

Poetry demands an arrogance of conviction

That 'I rule the journey of my own ideas!'

Yet understanding wholly that

'My thoughts are no deeper, or braver,

Or more true

Than anyone else's.'

A bizarre mix of defiance and defence

Committed to print

Boldly cast into the cold world.

Not necessarily with laughable swagger.

Often, more with a certain longing

That 'someone else - one person else -

Might see as I see, think as I think

Understand what I'm trying to understand.'

 

And who reads poetry besides other 'poets'?

Not many, I warrant.

But it hardly matters as the circle spreads

Like gathering fish in a massive net

Of common interests

Worldwide.

 

Ha! These are fine thoughts indeed!

Very boldly rendered

The keys pulsing through my fingers:

Words! Words! Words! The World of Words!

And – HA! again. I often wonder

If we poets do not drone the dirge of the damned

And frolic with the frog-footed 

Just for the hell of it - the sheer 'hell of it'!

We are a convoluted lot

Much on the 'precious' side -

But Ha! Ha! Ha! I really value your company.