Tony Di Bart
What is the poetís life?
Where does the poet hide?
Why does the poet see
words dance, like birds
through rays of ultraviolet?
Is it some deviant brain or cell locked in a rose,
coloured sheath of a myelin
Is he a prophet, or only trying to profit,
distill the events others are to busy to see
Is he a quack, word weaver with no pattern.
Why, how has he arrived at this junction in the road ,
in the sentence ,between what is, what is mind,
and what shall be spoken on a blank white page.
Is he a drug smoking fiend or enlightened guru
Can he find the truth where he refuses to look
and yet sees crystals in the eyes of strangers.
Is he a child growing old or a wise man staring
through eyes of eternal youth.
Is a flower beautiful repulsive red
or pure radiant rose?
Does it hold the secrets of the universe?
Can it not talk to him and only scream to him ?
Can he not repeat the vulgar and the sublime wisdom that spews forth
from itís pistil, pedals, thorns, roots,
**** sucking tentacles reaching for life
for eternity in the soil,
the beautiful brown womb that nurtures it
He reaches for great minds occasionally,
and does enjoy the sex, vagrant sex, begging, dirty unpure love,
after intoxicating wine, red like the flesh beneath the white skin of the lily.
Can anyone ever feel close to him, his heart, his pores,
flowing with sweat as they dance like cobras, one fatal dance.
He longs for his muse, for breath to steal,
his heart to give, for warmth to feel
He longs like the flower for the soil
Is this the poet
one who sees all, talks of nothing,
finds meaning in the passage of time
and the random events that precipitate through the eternal moment
Can he give through his words everything a soul
and yet cannot find his own?
He travels, in and out dazed through dreams
night mares, riding white horses
looking and trying to synthesize the meaning of life in a single word.
He looks, he finds, he losses,
he is a single drop of dew, an atom in the grand universe
and slowly he closes his eyes
and is gone...
Death makes angels of us all
and gives us wings
where we had shoulders
smooth as raven claws