By J Ann Crowder
I thought and I thought, what am I?
Can I merely comprehend but a sliver of Moon Beam?
Nature’s metaphor is a true teacher of these sacred comprehensions I implor
For by and by a storm rolls in; I admire
It’s eye provokes my heart, willing my hand to the quill
I’m no poet; still, words beckon and ever expand like clouds spilling over with moisture
Words heed my breath-hot, strumming on bare pages to the droning pulsation of my heart, blooming ripples on wide, silver lakes
Chiding, chiding-until words flood out as ink stamping light into a placid existence
I'm no poet my friend
More or less, I'm an artist painting my soul's tapestries with words
I cannot stop or I must explode with color overflowing like spring rivers
You see, art longs to be free
It wants to tell its stories and to share its finest tunes with the world
Art is like an Eagle with giant wings built to glide on the silken tides of oceanic atmosphere; she is most happy and content within an eternal engulfing sky
Thus it is my friend, I'm no poet
I sing with the ordinaire, searching for the oiled tapestries trapped within, releasing them like the freedom of doves
I was born with wings meant to expand; I cannot live freely unless they do
Because art is never happy banging inside a caged door
What is a poet, truly? Written March 15, 2016.