THE POET by Greg B. Porterfield

So, you want to know the Poet.

Seeking inspiration for the poem and the verse,

you yearn to find the secrets of the craft.

Poets, you’ll discover, are such a stingy lot.

They slowly shuffle every line and sound

choosing clumsy words that seldom fit,

until finally hearing a meter that rings true.

Moving each verse, again and again,

pushing and pulling to fit the frame,

squeezing each word ‘till it makes a sound.

At the coffee-house, they never order latte.

Picking a corner table just to sit alone,

armed with pen and a steaming mug of Joe,

they write as their drink grows bitter and cold.

Poets are untidy and choose to wear disguises.

Often hiding beneath a mustache or a hat,

their clothing draped in colored beads

with eyes concealed behind dark glasses.

A Poet is a lonely dreamer.

Wild eyed, staring blankly into space,

searching every word for meaning,

jumbled up in their convoluted verse.

Poets always misuse language.

They bend and break the rules,

choosing short lines and phrases,

to obscure the meaning as a tool.

Poets are certainly simple folk.

Humming tunes that fill their head,

they waste their lives on silly rhyme

no sane person wants or needs.

Poets are really a shiftless lot.

Sitting on a park bench, in a bookstore or library,

they scribble senseless phrases

filling page after page in their tiny books.

You’ll find that Poets are a poor lot.

They vanish quickly over time,

leaving words for lonely singers

trying to heal some troubled mind.

No, they are not worth knowing.

Just forget them if you can,

these sullen, shiftless souls

who we call Poets.