I wish my poems could listen to you,
For your thoughts are more beautiful than mine.
But telling stories is all they can do,
That, and touting opinions I opine.
It’s my poet’s curse to paint and to sing,
Using only words (words that sometimes rhyme),
Of ocher sunsets in earliest Spring,
And of diamond carpets in Wintertime.
I can paint broken hearts with clumsy hands,
For words are a subtle, forgiving brush.
I can sing broad beaches, bright silver sands,
And moonlight that shimmers on ocean rush.
Yet, could my creation but hear your choices,
Think what we'd create with blended voices!
At times, I cannot sleep because I hear the rolling moans of millions of poems, languishing in darkness, unfettered but unread. Perhaps they are simply so personal, relating to them is too difficult.