Poets

Now though it calls for sunshine, all to bring the earth to light,

it’s eyes alone and only that can mold a world for sight.

An eye that’s merely looking may well see a surface plain,

or may so far hide abstracted in the churnings of the brain.

It’s fear that makes for fantasies and dreams of better days,

and doubting indecision often misses the best ways.

And what’s a craven mind to do, that’s wrapped itself in rhyme,

but spin out some more verses and in some way pass the time?

There’s nothing in a poem, just a million doubts and fears,

and nothing in a poet, though he’ll last a few more years.

A poet loves a pretty word, and though he speaks no lies,

he’s terrified by meanings and one pair of watching eyes.

The fool they call a poet never knows just what to do;

he’s good enough with words but he can barely tie his shoe.

He hopes that if he’s pleasant and sings well they’ll let him live,

but fears that being born was one crime they won’t forgive.

And if a little poet likes to play a little game,

exposing all his weaknesses and boasting of his shame,

don’t ever give him sympathy, it only draws him on,

it’s a solid kick he’s needing, and a voice that says, “Begone!”

But please don’t kick him very hard, he’s not a nasty sort,

he only piles up his lines to make a pillow fort.

And if a dreamer somewhere knows just what he’s speaking of,

there may be room within a little pillow fort for love.