The Poets all march to the edge-
some perching
at the abyss of Screaming Desire;
Hearts exploding
Love reeling;

say not to those that Poet
that Desire is loathing
for those that believe this
back away
while we others
leap over Faith's abyss
smiling.

The Poets all march to the edge
of Faith
and blind we do not see
beyond the edge
we so desire
but Courage
whispers to our Faith
and we make the Swan Dive.

Poets march to the edge of Poetry
and some of us weeping
asking where did the this poem come from
and we kneel in the pew
saying
what grips me is
its Thundering,
Awesome
Mystery.

All poets march
to paper and pen
blanked canvas staring
secure in the driven-ness
that
carving out tiny word sculptures-

of noun, simile and metaphor-

will produce Language Hymns
to echo all through Literature's Cathedral;

that word miens will sing
under that fine canopy
whispering;

Its Poetry
It's the Poetry
within me
defiantly
being
born.

I am
Her hostage
for good
or ill.