The poet is a quiet man,
Often lost in thought.
His distant stare seems locked
On some imaginary spot.
His mind, though, worketh stead'ly,
Like an excavator digging
For some truth or beauty waiting
To be sifted through the jigging.
Life is made of moments
Strung together in a line.
The poet swirls each moment
In his mind, like fine wine,
Discerning the consistency
Of moments past and present,
Deciphering what underlies
The bitter and the pleasant.
He searches out deep myst'ries
From the comfort of his chair.
Baffled now, he sighs,
Running fingers through his hair . . .
Then, finding sudden breakthrough,
Throws his fist into the air
As he strikes some small deposit,
Both meaningful and rare.
Next begins the delicate task
Of framing the uncovered thought.
Like paper on a gift,
The poet wraps and pulls it taught.
With Rubik's Cubes of words he works
Until before him, streaming,
Lie rhythms, rhymes, and story lines,
Well-polished, gallant, gleaming.
What he finds below the surface,
Transparently he shares,
That others may be lifted
By the burdens which he bears.
For Truth, above all else,
Whomsoever he may be,
When found must surely be displayed
For all the world to see.
And Beauty—so elusive,
So difficult to grasp—
Like smoke, she slips through fingers
With the firmest, tightest clasp.
The poet knows all beauty fades
Except for that which dwells within.
He draws the gaze and brings great praise
To beauties deep beneath the skin.
Reflections of the God who made them,
Truth and Beauty shine like gems.
But the seamstress of creation
Wisely hid them in the hems.
The purpose of the poet
Is to sneak the world a peek—
And thus inspire others
For such treasures now to seek.
"Seek, and you shall find,
If you seek with all your heart."
It's with this phrase in mind
That the poet plays his part.
With passion will his pen be moved,
Unlocking, like a key,
Those hearts and minds which soon shall find
The Truth that sets them free.