Verdant Grass 10

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10. The Poet

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The poet sits in front of the window gazing.

But not seeing anything that is going on;

For his thoughts are looking upon Inner Spaces

Beyond what flits before his eyes.

 

The world goes by, running helter-skelter,

But his resolve leaves him in his place.

People shout profanities at one another;

He, residing in a place of calm, smiles.

 

Birds, raising their melodious voices,

Add to the filicity of his joy.

Never for a moment does he stop smiling,

For his Inner World is at peace.

 

The rustle of the leaves in the white oak trees

Give him a presence of an ancient knowledge.

Entering into his thoughts amassing,

The symbols of Inner Realms appear.

 

Taking up pen and paper before him

He readies the table for a word feast.

As a flood of a mighty river rising

The ink flows and floods the pages.

 

The pen flies, the ink flows, the paper, white as snow

Becomes blackened with the markings of Thought,

As the Sower, his words do sow

In the fertile ground of the paper flood plain.

 

Never for a moment does he desist

>From flooding the pages with his thought.

Nothing can deter him from doing his task

Until he reaches the end of its flow.

 

When finished, he looks upon his work

As thoughts and reviews abound.

He scribbles a note here and there

And revises a word or two.

 

His task complete, he sits in peace

And ponders over it all;

What he has written, is it complete?

To fretting he gives not a place.

 

There is no rhyme nor reason why

He acts the way he does

To those who understand nothing

Of the language of his Inner Source.

 

He does not stop to wonder why

He pens the words he does

So articulately on a blank white screen,

But his destiny encourages him on.

 

No one has told him what he must write;

No school has he attended here

To learn the trade of a poet’s fare,

But a natural Gift does he share.

 

He cannot be “made” by academic pride,

For ‘tis natural to be what he is.

Whether he likes the idea or not,

He cannot ignore the Divine Decree.

 

He may be strange, this one of verse,

But what he produces is lethal

To ideas that prove to be so untrue

And guide folks to their graves.

 

He seeks to encourage, to lift up all,

Though oft his words seem dreary;

But beneath the drear and dismal top

Dwells joy in Life’s pure purge.

 

Purgation comes on wings of Love,

Through flowing words abounding

Upon the tablets of ones heart

With the pen of Wisdom’s Hand.

 

The poet, channel for this Pen

Which seeks to bring forth Life,

Though oft it goes against his will

He’ll not neglect his task.

 

By God’s desire and Heaven’s will

The Gift he took upon him,

The likes of which is equalled not

By story-line nor learnéd text.

 

He is the harbinger of that

Which is the mystic’s way of life;

A way that mortal folk can’t seem

To understand nor tolerate.

 

But he keeps smiling, going on

To weave his verbal cloth.

Whether anyone pays heed or not,

He is not detered in his resolve.

 

Namaste,

 

~ Charles

 

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