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The Poet

So, you want to know the Poet.

Seeking inspiration for poem or verse,

you yearn for secrets of the craft.

Poets, you’ll discover, are such a stingy lot.

Shuffling each line with clumsy words

that seldom fit, ‘til producing a harmony

only they can hear.

Moving each verse, again and again,

they push and pull to fit the frame and

squeeze each word ‘til it makes a sound.

At the coffeehouse, they never order latte.

Picking a corner table just to sit alone,

armed with pen and a steaming mug of Joe,

they write as their drink grows bitter and cold.

Poets are untidy and wear disguises.

Often hiding beneath a mustache or a hat,

clothing draped in colored beads,

with eyes hidden beneath dark glasses.

A Poet is a lonely dreamer.

Wild eyed, staring blankly into space,

searching each word for meaning,

confused by convoluted verse.

Poets always misuse language.

They bend and break the rules

with short lines and phrases,

obscuring the meaning, as a tool.

Poets are certainly simple folk.

Humming tunes that fill their heads,

they waste their lives on silly rhyme

no sane person wants or needs.

Poets are really a shiftless lot.

Wasting time in parks, bookstores and libraries,

they scribble senseless phrases,

filling page after page in their tiny books.

You’ll find Poets are a poor lot.

They vanish quickly over time,

leaving words for lonely singers,

brokenhearted lyrics that rhyme.

No, they are not worth knowing.

Just forget them if you can,

these sullen, shiftless souls we call Poets.

DVWG Poet Greg B. Porterfield

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