tagNon-Erotic PoetryMeandering On A Soft Spring Day..

Meandering On A Soft Spring Day..

byAncient117331©

"Meandering On A Soft Spring Day..."

Its no mean feat to be poor
and artists usually are.
But unlike a painter or sculpter,
when a poet dies
their words don't magically become worth
more than they already were.
Their thoughts don't take on an intrinsic
value, their hopes and dreams don't continue
to grow beyond their meanings.
Sometimes their work is "rediscovered"
in dusty old shops
but more often
their words only made it
to their own paper, pad,
scrap of napkin or notebook
and were tossed out with the unwanted
reminders of their lives.

There ARE only so many words,
so many thoughts, and so many 'ways'
to express everything and anything.
Statistically, genius MUST occur
so often that it becomes mundane
to those without the spark
and there-ever-after unrecognized
and unwanted.
The mediocre IS hence the norm
by which all is judged and accepted
and the 'difference' becomes lost
in a caringly uncaring crowded world.
The epitaph of "My way or no way"
rings in halls of powers that haven't
the 'heart' within
but KNOW they do.

Its not in challenges
or games
that we find ourselves...
its not in the 'forcing'
or 'fitting-in' of our lives
and thoughts and 'ways'
of ANY expression.
Its not in the 'love' we feel
or even lose;
nor the dreaming
so many despise and ridicule
as only THEY can...
Its that we
poets
FEEL and speak
of OUR nows
and the thens
and the tomorrows
we seemingly alone see.
A poet RISKS
by sharing themselves,
exposing themselves
as they alone CAN -
to all the todays there will ever be.

I love music.
The simple concept
and arcane art
of instilling mood
and sense...
the timing and stroke -
of heat
then chills
then sleekly tonal whims;
the beats of which move
within
and often outside as well.

Magic is real...
the physical laws
are held,
discovered over-and-over
again-and-again
new to each person witnessing their 'first'.
So many witness THEIR 'first'
each day
everyday
in so many ways -
unique to themselves
yet the same to each.
Strange - all the same.

I can taste the sunlight.
Feel the music and magic
of each breath.
Wonder in the wandering
and wander with wonder.
I can sing without words,
whisper through the winds,
and smile in the knowing -
I have BEEN...
meandering on a soft Spring day.

Chris Twyford
Ancient117331
4/14/2003

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