The Hearts of Poets

Your words are stuffed into the air I breathe, in

and out like a never ending whirlpool

of maddening twists and currents

that always draw me in

to here, to there.

I turn around and there they are,

your words, catching behind my throat and slipping

out through my tears.

Trace my neck, hold my breath and still -

the thick liquid of poetry will continue

to burn and sting and tarnish my heart.

You speak with your ink,

your scratch marks and stains,

pampered in fluent romance.

It’s a pain and a pleasure, a poem like yours.

To cast enchantment from mere words,

a stretch, a stanza, a gust of wind -

it’s a wonder to me;

Your words follow the rhythm of structure, and hide

behind abstraction, illusion, and exaggeration

and we call it truth.

It’s truth enough, but it’s spoken through

pencil shavings and pen names in dark rooms

where your honesty means nothing

so where’s the truth in that?

Written words become empty words

and words left unsaid.

Still - I’d happily sip tea and live on lies

then to banish your words of beauty from my life.

I never called myself a poet,

But I can appreciate every syllable that slips

from your lips.

I can hear poetry whistling in the trees,

in the crunch of leaves or in an ocean breeze.

I can hear sweet words in a quiet room,

but to run from my own pen - that’s too far to reach.

Maybe if I keep listening, I will hear

the hearts of poets singing.