Poemic…
Poet comes from the Greek poiētēs (ποιητής), meaning “maker,” “creator,” or “one who makes.” It comes from the verb poiein (ποιεῖν), meaning “to make, create, compose, bring into being.”
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Where is this poet found to be?
Everywhere I look, I see poetry,
but as for who wrote,
or where these words spoke,
none of me can clearly see.
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A poet, as named,
is a pointer,
in the same way
All is pointing
at the All that is This.
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And so I insist
in using words
that seem absurd
to point at This
that I have heard,
or seen,
or been?
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Poet me, is poetry.
No separate one can ever be
separate
from what we know as all of me
and all I see.
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What is this poetry?
Where can it be
found in me?
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Why are you looking for me?
I consider you suspiciously,
claiming to look in a book
like a fish admiring a hook
tenderly.
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All this is This,
a poet’s poetry,
the never-ending
Explicit Mystery
unfolding for All to see.
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Heads bowed in misery,
reading out loud,
a voice in a crowd.
That voice is me.
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Lost in all this poetry,
everlasting ecstasy,
no matter who the poet be.
