Where is peace of mind if you can't hear
An angels song at four in the morning?
The house asleep. The dog even annoyed
You're making so much noise.
Where is the poetry of youth?
In mid-aged men. Kept quiet too long.
In fathers, in uncles, in men who
Remember the dawn in their bones;
Know it like Keats knew it.
Know it like a poet's calloused poet hands beat a drum
Beat-pound too many days gone by spent wondering
Where the joke had a-line-punched-a-line-foot tripped-
Tipped-line-of-poetry for what a poem does.
Where are these bard's men?
These sons men?
These up before The Dawn's men?
What begs a voice has a song!
Ears go deaf. Not the song!
Poetry plays an Angel's Plea!
Poets to arms!
Pixels and Pens!
Not young men!
Men. Poetry demands men.
The faint. The stout.
The fair-faced. The grizzled.
Some so much round-bellied.
Some too much gym-bellied.
Homely-angelic Everyman Men.
Father lover-turned loved safer sounder.
World: (here) Is what you do.
Poetry: (here) Is what is.
Young poets die from
What youth now means.
A sunrise is as neglectful as a sunset.
We awkward witness apologize for watching the first.
The second only after kids-fed days-checklists (done).
Safety-safely away an accounted.
Asked what we're doing alone with a sunset,
We say: Daydreaming lost myself for a minute.
Though we know: It was remembering the song
We never sang when we were young.
Never sang the pain of our children
Who will never sing the song of sunrise
Or say what a sunset means,
Unless we -us men- shout-sing-say it.
Now! Say it plain.
And in between,
I love and love.
Grown, I love more!
More than what the sun means
The promise of what lies between the suns.
The only song worth singing,
The soul song between the suns.
There's more use in a sunrise then anything at all.
The Sun is setting I'm gonna -just sit-
The Sun is rising I'm gonna -just sit-
To Hell with fingers shouting lazy.
To Hell with human ways screaming:
Ambitionless! No good! Useless!
Nothing is more useful then a sunrise.
Love lifts The Sun.