The Death of a Poet and Other Clichés

I will write a poem

if it kills me.

Even if the line

breaks me.

Even if love

counts its ways.

Even when a

lesser path emerges.

Even if I lie

etherized on a table.

Even if roses are red,

with each petal a cliché.

Even if to be or not to be

isn’t the question.

Even if you tread

softly on my dreams.

Even if there’s water

everywhere but no drop.

Even if I wander,

lonely as a cloud.

Even if no word

rhymes or I

double over in

entendre,

this is a poem,

and I live on.

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Once and Again. Boundless.

 

One more book,

one more song,

one more walk

in the spirit to see

One who swallows me.

 

The search continues for

Someone I have already found.

This quest of authenticity

resurrects dead poets,

theologians, and sages.

 

“The heavens’ embroidered cloths”

lie as dreams under Your feet.

I will tread softly on Your dreams.

 

You said it was all straw

yet I will gather the stalks

you left lie.

 

I will see the invisible fecundity

in the visible things

set in the dimmed light.

 

I shadow

contemporary

searchers of light.

 

Neil Diamond was lost

between two shores

to find out who he was.

 

Bruce Cockburn’s dance

with the everywhere truth

and the grace to lay it bare.

 

Michael W. Smith points to

the flesh and blood

of the I Am Love.

 

Then the great Author

names the lead

the Word.

 

A book,

a song,

a walk

in the cool of the day

and You show up.