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As from their life’s moments with words did they play
to note what it was to them on a day
in a world where there was little to entertain them otherwise
inside their eager minds and awake, searching eyes.
Looking for more to attribute to life,
to keep their own minds useful and sprite,
denouncing injustice in the face of cruel kings
afraid for their lives from society’s religious beings.
Owning their own gift from a God that did give
them their own talents and life to be lived
by their free choices, with their free voices,
beyond what others wanted, beyond what employees
men to walk blindly in chains of oppression
and women to give in to immoral subjugations
deprived of their own choice, deprived of what’s right,
these poets did know how to structure human plights.
Delicately choosing the words to convey
their fingers forming words like a delicate lace
in their understanding from a world’s tawdry sways
hosted all around them in a myriad of ways
witnesses of hypocrisy, spectators of life’s lusts,
eyewitnesses to reality, what and whom they could trust
under stern judgments, under threat of imprisonment
from their own kinsmen should they find offense
to their audacity, to their own truth, to their own attempts in their pursuit
to be who they were not like others or you.
These poets, their pens, their inks and their books
they wrote down their moments from life as it took
its turn in the shaping their thoughts and perceptions
intertwining their humanity, morality and obligations
leaving their momentas to future generations
to pry and to scry, to consider and relate
to take strength to heart, to resurrect and resuscitate
their worthy attributions, their incredulous observations
their thoughtful considerations, their earthly donations
to the willingness of readers, to friends of ideas
so to them and through them their moments would live
alive and unafraid, understood for what inspired them
the worded gardens of minds who themselves transcribed
the eternal shores of heaven each new day to day
and what it was they found there that had something to say.
Raptured by nature and its unending scenes
that stretched through the hillsides full of colors and forest greens,
budding flowers, streaming waters, colored berries, tastes of wines
reminding them forever after of a love quenched by their writing.
Through the flame of flickering candle, through the song of lonely bird,
under night of starry skies wearing heartbreaks silent words.
These poets now studied, these poets now read,
these poets, in of themselves, were what living had said.

Jade Dane Jaspers ©