Poets Are Holy Hypocrites
poets are holy hypocrites;
it’s their blessing and their curse.
they sit for as long as it takes
like terriers at a foxhole
or for second-best practice,
at a rabbit-hole,
totally still, alert, all their powers
poured into attention;
what a lesson dogs
are for humans
then – a movement in
their consciousness; it could be
anything creative – a film, a poem;
and with it comes the sense
of wonder; they are as children
living in an eternal present
of the universe as gift;
they take up their pen or keyboard
and, so carefully, as they
would handle a new-born baby,
write down this spell for that it is
for the benefit of others quite unknown
and then like a christening shawl,
white, soft, handmade with love,
offer it to the world.
then some who believe its magic
read the spell, are reborn
or cured, or restored
to good health and humour
or simply have a good day
while those who don’t believe the spell,
well of course the magic doesn’t work for them
so far so very good. But then
those who aren’t into wanting spells
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poem by Michael Shepherd
Added by Poetry Lover
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