Romantic Poet
Because I'm a lyrical poet in the mode of the Romantics —
Wordsworth, Byron, Shelley, Keats, Coleridge —
I can grow as young or as old, instantaneously,
As my most fleeting or slowly unfolding whim might conceive,
My noblest or least prepossessing fancy might evoke,
Just by composing, from the robust vocabulary of my soul,
A cosmos of never-before-known metaphors and vowel chimes
More numerous, luminous, numinous than the stars in the sky,
A universe of music, beauty, truth, in a sigh, an eye-blink, a smile.
Tonight, I'm transforming, transmuting, transfiguring, transposing
My spirit's corporeal existence into two nine-line stanzas
Seventy-one Genesis-inspired years high, wide, and deep,
Just by guiding this pen, over my notebook's blue rules,
And breathing immortality into the life-lines of my ephemerality,
Hoping that the notes emanating from the core of my source
Will, in measureless blessings of passion, rapture, and ecstasy,
Rise to the firmaments God named dawn and dusk
And awaken the generations to be, by reciting my poetry.
11/09/12
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