Most other poets now neglect to sing.
A poet is a maker, poems made:
That’s so, but verse is more than just a thing
Of words well crafted, like floor tiles well laid.
A poem should ascend into the air
On wings of song that beat with metered strokes
And bear the mind to regions angels share
Beyond our mundane ways, or it’s a hoax.
A poem rightly invokes ecstasy,
Swelling the heart and soul with higher joy,
Lodging itself in sacred memory,
A safe-kept treasure, not a cast-off toy.
But should you say this verse won’t qualify,
Well, I’ll still try—and will until I die.