The Poet in the Poem: A must read

A collection of over 250 poems that reflect on man as the poet and the actor who handles the helm of his affairs, on a timed cruise. His abilities compose and steer his story, as his capabilities and fate enables him. It encapsulates the essence of poetry, using eloquent words to convey the poet’s thoughts and experience. The poet mans the helm, and the cruise is his composed poem.

Download “The poet in the poem” from this link:
The eyes see the tears,
In response repelled are the fears.
The flesh’s demand is so goody,
As sure as it is of the body.

The truth is buried within,
Hidden from all kith and kin.
The conscience ever tells a fact,
As sure as it is of the heart.

The brain’s constant thought
Depends on how deeply it’s taught.
Its reason is based on its find,
As sure as it is of the mind.

The spirit reveals the person,
It eludes comprehended reason.
The future will show the foul,
As sure as it is of the soul.

Interchanged as its suitor,
It tells all about the actor.
The poet mans the helm,
The cruise his composed poem.

This is a collection of over 250 poems that altogether seeks to reflect man as both the poet and the actor who handles the helm of his own affairs, on a timed cruise, down his very own banked personal river. Using his abilities to compose and steer his poetic story, faring only as suitably as his capabilities and fate enables him.

The essence of poetry is in its use of eloquent apt words to convey the poet’s exact thoughts, as they are felt or experienced by him. Like it is the actor’s ability to apply specific skills to portray a scripted character reveals a story, it is likewise the poet’s grant to create the content and set the beauty of the words.

If the soul is scripted, if the mind can think, if the heart does feel and the body is specific; then every individual distinctively roams on a course throughout their lives that can be manipulated to fit their own different experience, but not actually change it. For the poet mans the helm, and the cruise is his composed poem.

A few of the poems…..


The making of he who is
Has origins in the air he is.
Made in secret, carried about.
Revealed openly, in and out.

Gathered in the skies high,
To roam as mist up high.
It bursts the banks it fills
And cracks downwards to fill.

The hardening effect of frost;
Granite and so harsh a host,
Conquers the whole land
So that air can’t lend a hand.

Mightily the season comes
When the diamond becomes
Water again and it all ends;
Melting into a liquid that fends.

Who must comes first,
Males or the females?
This knowledge a thirst
That quenches with cells.

If what is common birth
Forms females or males;
Supremacy is their myth,
Caged within each cells

Cruel, cruel death
We have never met.

I only just heard
Of the fear in tears you said.

You’ve been about the herd
And oh the wonder you fed.

Who tells if you’re sent
When you only just left?

Is to live a curse or gift?
If you wonder, you need a lift;
Up to the skies of living memory,
Back and forth man’s own glory.

Two gentlemen of the world met,
Sitting on a park bench together.
They shared as their extremes let,
Yet their unique talents will hinder.

Pious is the madman, who lives here;
His abode ignored but litters the world.
Platitude, a he cruise his composed
poem. that goes there,
To seclude from the kind his world mould.

Crazy in his rags and papered home,
Pious welcomes his regular guest’s tale.
The rotten egg welcoming the bone;
Like a dog, he shows off his one tail.

They converse about a news item;
The learned Prof reads off his News daily.
Forwarding arguments befitting them,
Each reasoned man’s folly mainly.

Teachers sought reason for the sane,
Making sense of theories as realities.
While the insane do the very same,
Realities as theories are certainties.

In ostentatious escapades of the mad
Roams religious virtue so uncommon
And in sanity’s commonness easily had
Grows the loose morality we do summon.

Embedded in their platonic briefs
Is the story of their common child;
Man’s common sense and beliefs,
Are like madmen’s, when all are blind



Struggles For Justice Blog


Giddy with the prospect of painting words
on a blank white canvas,
I see wheat undulating to the rhythms of a summer breeze,
lyrical and uninterrupted,

only to find humanity reaching out for critical mass
to take it to the apocalypse.

Wave oceans all in blues and greens and white froth,
crash against defenseless little children at the border
a scintillating dreadfulness,

fluffy white clouds
in a sun filled blue sky
so alien,
so unforgivingly beautiful,
bearing their dreams away

receding like the misty province of ghosts.

I feel that warm breeze slide up my bare arm,
smile at the comfort of her touch,
such ease
from the unfeeling grotesque
love unconditional,

for religious extremists murdering the faithful
praying handcuffed on the ground,
flinching only at sound of automatic rifle’s staccato daggers,
in the public square.

The Lord brings us hurricane winds so often
filled with trepidation,
at such…

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