I’m not much of a poet

But then other times I think

Maybe I am if

Only in some ways

 

In a rush or a trickle

When I least expect them to

Words have a way of

Flying from my hands

 

Other times the words

Are sorely silent

No matter how I tempt them

They are stubborn and distant

 

From where do they come?

From far lands unknown

Or songs unsung or in the

Strange recesses of my heart

 

Sometimes it may not be I

Who speaks, but another soul

Who desperately

Needs a voice to speak

 

Or the world needs expression

From a tongue it doesn’t have

Or maybe God has

A message to give

 

Words, voices, inspirations

And the ghosts that haunt my mind

Their presence and their absence

That is what makes a poet:

 

We listen.