Diary of a Poet

Volume XIV

Penpainter© (2003)

Dearest Reader,

    Well, here we are, again. ...or there you are, again...here!     And all i can say, is that i tried my best, again, to stay out of the way of the Muse, as it spun, and twisted, and contorted, and misused, and fumbled with words, and phrases, and meters, and rhymes and whatnot. According to my own belief, that, this practice, puts me this much closer to perfect; the unattainable feat, infinitely beyond reach, allowing for great leaps of progress, without binding or cramping in any way whatsoever. It is with sadness that i realize this is the last volume that will be pulled from the thoughtcafe.co.uk posts, as they are closing in March of the coming year. For any of you who have visited the site, my condolences, and for any of you whom have missed the treasures and delights found there, my condolences.     Alas, there are many a site for such postings, and, in the end, it is the posters and the readers, not the site, that makes it all worth while, so may we meet there, wherever it is, now, of course...

SAMPLES

1041



When The Dust Settles



Masterfully nimble

to the unattained eye

Intellectual gymnastics

while ether worlds cry



Delight in flash-frame

while emotions smother

Simulating strangers

of sister and brother



Pieces of a puzzle

thou, thee and i

Reptiles claiming spirit

dreaming wogs who can fly



We begin to realize

how we help teach each other

How we begin to realize

how we help teach each other



Though faux pas amany

this be-eth not one

Thus of course obvious

when all-eth are done



Archaic renditions of

Post-Neo-Thought

Pages and pages of

what blood never bought



Invisibly perfect

indelibly blue

Irrevocably honest

at heart, me and you





1061



Less of a Writer?



...



If i am less of a writer

for not being read

So much less then the writer

i'm already dead



But if the words have their way

they are the writer

For me is but finding their way

avaiding slighter



Could have been chisel to stone

words do find their way

Inertia's poets to stone

echoing err way



But i used spirits to ink

and bottle to stone

Seancing spirits to ink

slice minds to the bone



Just one handful of pages

many eyes to ink

Just the stages of pages

not daring to blink



But life's consideration

to purchase pages

Then no consideration

the poet rages



So book is stacked against book

consideration

Teh war with look against book

for adoration?



But life's being read

while life's writing the book

And strife's being read

be it by hook or by crook



If i am less of a writer

for not being read

So much less then the writer

i'm already dead



...











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