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Friday, April 1, 2011

From an open flyleaf of my poetry journal, dipsey-doodling poesy down by the old seashore

shuffling my bare feet in the deep beach sand
I take my pencil nibs and writing papers
down to the edge of surf
and listen
to the ocean surge I ask."what are
you looking for now"?
I am a poet
I am looking for loose words
to a song
about a wayward soul dear to me
But, the words race far ahead
blurred in my myopic vision
My pencil cannot scribble fast enough
to keep pace with the verbal tide
"Then", the ocean bellowed,"use your notes
from a childish tune you once played
on a zither
that gathers dust in the bedroom closet
or use nasal sounds, farts, coughs, and
silly faces and hisses----
from deep within your diaphragm".
"And," I answered," what if I am
not understood'?
"Hooey"!,chortled the surf , "Do you think
that you're the only poet
to claim misunderstanding?"
"Clearly, your inarticulate moans
are forming a new symphony of sounds
from dwarfish skills
in need of time and experience
to grow".
The poet sat back on his haunches
the waters lapping cold on his ass
for a long time
He listened to the ocean
curl and crash
ebb and flow
over one wave and over another
In the cacophony of his chaotic yawp
a harmony crept into his ears
When friends listen to each other's hearts
An epic poem is forever being created
It will be a performance for the ages
A sly Muse weaves a halo above me
of sun and sky
and made from the cloths of heaven.

- Ray Johns

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