This earth is littered with skeletons—
we find them everywhere—
Of dinosaurs, whales, bats and people.
We know their bones, but not their souls.
The few old souls that we do know
live in dying memories…or words.
If you want to speak forever,
you’ll need a soul preserved in words.
For those of us who are poets,
words for eternity are everywhere…
Words to ingest, then to gestate,
then to shove around on paper
Until they say what they’ve been taught
and make men more than dinosaurs…
And speak to any cosmic listener…
and leave behind more than enigmatic bones.
Now poets have to pay for words:
For the hope that they’ll be read tomorrow,
They’ll give up all that they might have today.
For the right word or perfect phrase,
They’ll trade their families, friends, and lovers—
even their faithful dog, if they have a dog.
They’ll expose their most intimate thoughts
and invest their fleeting sanity in words.
A poet will trade everything for living words,
for words that shout out who we are
And anchor Man at the center of the universe
and portend our souls as immortal….
Both people and nature-made things
all decay, we think, into tiny strings,
While words live on in the cracks of time
passing, forever, from mind to mind.
A Hill resident, the author believes that the appreciation of art should not be influenced by the vagaries or prejudices of biography.