I write poetry--not to exhibit expertise--
But to create beauty.
If I fail to beautify even the worst realities,
Then I fail in my own self-chosen duty.
Second, I write to exhibit me:
The deep true me that thinks and feels--
Caught like a fly on flypaper,
On one of time's vast turning wheels.
If I show myself true to you,
Then I am a poet--and among true poets I am a peer.
If I do so with words that ring true--
As well as with words of music, meaning, emotion, and beauty--
Then I have done almost all that I have set out to do--
In my brief bright life, lived on this little spinning, cycling sphere--
In one great star-filled galaxy, our home, the Milky Way--one,
Among a hundred billion galaxies, each with a hundred billion stars,
Burning and turning, beyond total discerning, mysteries far above.
And each tiny-seeming twinkle--truly--a huge, massive, powerful sun.
This speck myself--knowing much, but to the great last truth still blind--
Wonderful me, with that whole universe dark and bright within my mind;
Mortal, pitiful me--writing my poetry--waiting for cancer to bring my end;
While I grieve in pain, because of the ER doctor who killed my friend.
Grieving too because Brian loved his family so much;
And he wanted us all to be friends; but we stay out of touch,
Which I know, if he sees it, makes him sad.
I still strive to seek the heart in me, making poetry, shaking off scars.
One thing only remains for my poetry's aims, the third:
I hope even just one of my poems, or a single line, or just one good word,
Will reach your heart, and connect you with me,
And that in this callous-seeming cosmos,
Dwarfing us with vast spatial distance and temporal eternity,
There will be a little more love--
Because you heard.

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Written by Michael LP, aka MLP
aka PoetWithCancer, aka PWC, aka Mr. Poet
Written on Thursday, April 7, 2011  11:08 am PST
64 degrees F.   Humidity: 27%   Forecast: windy
Copyright (C) 2011 by Michael LP.  All rights reserved