Words bombard us, bully us, and beat us down.

We stumble over them, early morning barricades

Standing between our waking up and our out-the-door,

Loudly broadcast road blocks hindering our daily routine.

They drip, like morning coffee, with bitterness,

Barrage us all day long, and finally harass our return to sleep,

As they’re hair-raisingly hurled by the nightly news:

Razor-sharp, terror-filled, ugly-ass words,

At times completely empty, at times filled with hate,

But never a new or beautiful thought to contemplate.

Then Enters the Poet…

  With words that renew us, astound us, uplift us,

He gathers concepts and terms by the side of the road

Discarded ideas under rock and ridge,

Then employs his craft with the discipline of time and tides

Patiently wearing away coarseness and grit

He picks and he polishes, prunes and perfects each syllable, each turn of phrase

Then gathers his words into glimmering, glistening poem-bouquets

For mothers, and lovers, and strangers and strays,

Weeding and trimming, then sharing his view

Beautiful to contemplate, and always brand new!