The Poet's Heart
By Walter Burns
Under a bed, 'neath a file, or simply written on a page The words of the poet’s soul locked securely in a cage A constructing worker, doctor, or a man of hourly wage Imagine behind living eyes there lies a wizened sage A box of poems in treasure chest, a vault full of gold There enscribed a journeyman from child to age of old Lines and crease, torn and tattered, but adored is every fold The power of the words within, could ne'er be fairly sold A picture drawn, a limerick, may a ballad not sung aloud Never to see the light of day, never wishing to be proud Where can I see in sweet laid words what I see in every cloud The sonnet lovers, paradellers, or the simple haiku crowd? Poems are power, found in places, by every kind of means They show the world we’re not at all vacant mind machines At times they're sketched upon our hopes never meant to be seen The poems of the human’s heart so come ye kings and queens! © on Jul 01 2001 01:56 PM PST 0 • 14
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"Under a bed, 'neath a file, ..."