To the Poets of this World

Ode to the Poet

I don't know you
and yet the soil that permeates your soul
lights my way through the phosphorescent night,
soldiers of the pen who smote gunpowder.
I have never met you and yet your eyes of emerald
torches commandeer the waves and shout to the heavens,
the ink you so bravely spill like nectar.
I see your casks seep blood red truth and not falter an inch
when sentenced, I hear your trumpet song bellow like a moon
full of nocturnal honesty.
I touch your flesh blue paper and read crisply the lines you
shed like a confessional testament to integrity.
I may not know you but I breathe the same breaths, I hunger
in a thoughts silhouette hovering like an owl
reaching for wisdom and the fortitude to stand.
I am a ghost in white muslin clinging to your bosom, hoping
that the poems melody, its magnolia roots itself deep within
this frame.
I linger poets in your granite presence seeking the stones flight,
skipping borders of boundless garments, embroidering a tapestry of
balloons so I can soar above the mantle of the sea.
I may not know you, but I am becoming you, in dreams of vermilion
stars, pierced by your pomegranate words that speak magic.
I loiter here, waiting for the diamond eclipse, shrouded by geranium dunes
and tall grasses kneaded by the turquoise sun.
I am silent, a forest of silent pines, needled by pins, wanting to
nestle in the company of your most humble and topaz tranquility.

Kevin Harling.