Words that form scenes tumble and rumble,
my mind talking
draped by white space, huddle mass,
flurry, infusion working to be shaped.
Questions swarm around seeking to be disciphered,
graphite meets paper.
What's this entity, these verses I have launched?
Like a growing embryo, the poem rise up
to explore the outer edge of reality
and the poet sees through the mesh worked screen.
The poem shaped from mind's eye, blossom
like a clear, crystal water fall, bated with
convulsions, in raw ctrated enterprise. You must
tame this cascade, tumbling eruption of words,
channeled into a work of art.
Timely axiom, you have fought rough waters, smooth
out powerful undercurrents and calmed the cataract...
You glance back and find the poem becomes a reality.
It began with thoughts. A resonating creative soul.
Its power and words in free flow
collision are what make a poem extraordinary. E. Lynar
