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What are we,
if not amazing words
to unspoken stories?
Esoteric combination
of human ideation
gave us imagination to inspire
inspiration,
aspire to acquiesce
divination
and further this –
the complex,
uniqueness of our pen.

To the poets,
contemporaries
which write nothing of substance
or echo what wasn't –
you, the decay
of thoughts on page,
spec of Faraday
constant spark
which unknowingly feeds
the rage,
of those of
you who are great.

Why do we choose
to revel in
nonsense, an
arguably pointless flight of fancy?
Predilections for
Nancy Willard's childish prose,
neglectful of Bukowski's
stoicism and hard road –
gave to us
abdication of modern
sensibilities.

To the poets,
who yield to perceived truths –
Emily Dickinson,
is not in you –
The trembling hand of Poe,
will not guide you –
Strike your name into stone,
weather the sea
of time – survive
and write something
worth being alive.