Firsthand Poet

How many roads… Bob Dylan singing sang

Before an individual springing sprang

From flowing stone he carves into a tree

Sequoia scraper bears the name of ME

Concentric rings for every growing year

A climb to solar heaven leaving fear

To creatures of the forest floor below

That in the umbrage scavenge what they know

Firsthand the redwood gets it from the sun

No mediating journalists may run

Between his branches and the azure ceiling

His intuition keener than a feeling

To manufacture energy from light

His sole creative purpose giving sight

In wooden pages bearing pretty words

The poetry of truth to all affords

2 thoughts on “Firsthand Poet

  1. The difficulty of writing poetry for me is the way that the form tends to dictate the content. Using rhyme and meter will have very different results from something written in free verse. But I enjoy the challenge of employing more traditional forms. If I could write in blank verse the way Milton did then I’d feel successful.

    Happy Fourth of July!


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