The Promised Poem

Greetings, my dearest friends, and oh so few (HINT HINT) followers.

I promised to share the poem that defines the title of my book manuscript. Maybe it will give me some redemption from the song lyrics. Speaking of which, let me share this. Although the lyrics are painfully raw, Bruce and I have maintained our wonderful friendship. But, current events (sounds like a social studies course) have provided the muse for these lovely lyrics Matt's band so prefers.

Now, here is a humorous exchange of words between Bruce and I. He remains one of my greatest fans. He's noticed that nature plays a large part in my poetry; I like to make reference to some flora, fauna and truly amazing trees. So, the other day I was telling him about a tree I've recently read about - the Strangler Fig. After I finished telling him all the delightful facts about this tree, his face fell and he said, "Don't tell me. I'm going to be the Strangler Fig." I was happy to tell him that I'll make certain that isn't the case. Maybe I'll write it for my bill collectors.

Once more, (Now there is a lie - I'll surely beg again) I implore those of you who read my work and send me those lovely emails, please click on the "follow" link. I promise I'm nothing like the Pied Piper. There will be no rats at your heels, probably just an email telling you I've posted something new. You have suffered enough. (Another lie.) Here is the poem.

The Poet: A River to the Sea

High atop a mountain
begins streams of subliminal
thought, words melting
into language. Gullies
form within the poet's
mind, bursting with life
to nourish the spirit, to
succor the deepest valleys
of the soul. Rushing to
a confluence of sound,
rhythmic and pleasing,
within the delta of
humanity, meandering,
until finally pushing
toward the sea where
the ocean's tides are
familiar with the moon
and deciphers the hour,
declaring it in the shifting
sand. Here the seagulls
keen and sail with the
currents of air - air so
heavy with mist it is as
though the breeze is silently
weeping. Waves crash
against great rocks, smoothing
them with time, as the
poet, a river to the sea,
soothes the gentle heart
of mankind, and the little
terns play in the froth of
the surf, like the individual
letters of a poet's words.