the leaves don't pray

[revolutionrabbit]

the leaves don't pray to the sky
the branches don't kneel to the wind
the tree itself doesn't bow to the sun

but the sky embraces the leaves
and the wind teaches the branches
the tree sways in the sun beam's hands

likewise the poet does not pray to words
and his thoughts like branches, do not
genuflect to the ways the wind blows
the poem itself also does not grovel
before the brightest light in the heavens

but the words breathe life into the poet
and each poem is like a fallen autumn leaf
and the direction his branch thoughts reach too
are great tree arms holding up the sky, wind , sun

the poem does not beg for forgiveness
nor does it expect to be forgiven for its transgressions
that would be its greatest crime, to not have crossed
over the line of good sense, and become senseless
when it is just about spill its beans all over its reason
for being

the poet is a whistler in the dark, a mumbler on the corner
he counts crumbs on the ground, each one blesses the bird
he reads the newspapers on the face of each word he writes
down, not one word goes by that the poet does not consider
does not erase and scratch out before reflecting on with praise
for the poem is the cathedral of broken hearts and dead gods
it is the palace of lost dreams and forgotten magnificence
the shack of grandeur and the humble mumbo of gone grace

[Arcadia]

bravo, r-rabbit!!!

[revolutionrabbit]

actually a poem is like a prayer
and of course there are different kinds of prayers
as different kinds of poetry
maybe more like a Tibetan prayer flag
my poems are all experimental
they will never be super tight
or sugar sweet or like a bitter pill
super crafted, or super self conscious
I'm looking for that odd point
like almost looking the other way
while writing it, so the poem is like a church
the one in the middle of the desert, with crows
for worshipers, with broken stained glass eyes
looking out on the empty horizon where the road
goes toward the vanishing point.