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THE POET
By Danny

He grabs some paper and he pulls up a pen
He looks at the blankness and he counts up to ten.
Then he scribbles a word, and then some more
Then the words flow out, like animals out of a pen.

As the poet goes from line to line,
Making it perfect, making it rhyme.
He thinks and he writes and he waits
He gives those words every bit of his time

Not a word ever gets written
Without his special permission
HE carefully chooses the right word to fit
Inserting words into the smallest incision.

The final verse rears its black ugly head,
The poet’s hand feels heavy, it feel like lead
But his mind is still jumping for the right final verse
It’s done! Over. Finite. Its all been done and said.

The poet holds the poem up to view
and already finds stuff to change, stuff to do
But he leaves it alone, lest he get caught in the trap
Of eternally changing the poem, making it new.

5-07-04