Come, my fine poets, follow me, the sea
Is rough, its temper, mean. We must, we must
Commit to be crux--of our history;
Authors of the freed. Come, come, shake off that dust!

Some fine-feathered poets rant their chagrin,
Blame it on gods, bastard luck, or on creeds;
Comment!—Shout loud!—then, we’ll reel them all in,
Recycle their skins, and flotsam debris.

Come, oh, come, my passionate fellows! We
must, we must--learn our lessons; we poets
Can fight, we’ll fight like hell! Our words, the key,
In stark silhouette. With words we’ll upset

The ignorance of hate--it’s not too late!
Become a sword; pirates deserve their fate.

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 5/3/04