the poet

I marvel, I marvel

For mine eyes, oh mine eyes

Doth see world a marvel.

Oh how mine soul rejoice!

For two balls I do hold

And the world I behold.

poetry is the sound of falling rain;

poetry is the cracking of autumn’s leaves beneath my feet;

poetry is life, and therefore, death;

poetry is the breath of every soul:

                                       for where there is a soul, there also is poetry——                                                         even when death’s sting has striken;

poetry is the greatest of all great trees that has lived and strived for evolution:yet, it evolves not–it is ever deep within the core of the soul:that, it has never changed…..

POETRY IS EVER UNDEFINED… IT SHOULD BE… IT MUST NOT BE DEFINED: FOR POETRY IS NOT MEANT TO BE DEFINED, BUT TO BE CHERISHED….. TO BE CHERISHED ALONE IS ALL ITS PURPOSE.

writing is as a river flowing;

writing is as a beaver swimming…

writing is involuntary; as the heart’s pumping, as the lungs’ collapsing and expanding…………………..

writing therefore………….. is writing………………..