A Moment In The Mind Of A Poet

I was daydreaming of how soothing

Would be the sight of 

Barefoot, wild ponies eating sprinkles

Of the posies that decorate 

Blue grasses in an abandoned prairie,

Covered by sweet, morning

Dew.

There are only thirty one of them,

An odd number,

But in all respects more fascinating,

For that Arabian looking

 One gone missing.

In passing I appreciate

That this thought 

Struck me,

Though ever so gently,

As I was resting my eyes 

And reflecting 

upon the day 

That had just ended

Without proffering the slightest

Spur, 

At least not the type to give birth 

to a reason that one

Should memorialize,

Even a moment of it

To paper.

I had just cursed my surroundings,

Current countenance included,

Lack of creativity,

And what I considered at the time

To be a considerable absence of

Talent—

Self loathing and all that—

But purely from the subjective

Sense of the wizened poet.

So, no therapy requisite.

It was then, in that rusted cauldron,

Where the thin and rank soups

Of pity brew,

That this picture 

Washed over my mind like

Ironically blinding chemicals 

From the troughs neatly aligned

In the narrow,

Rose-tinted dark room

In the basement

Of Frans Lanting—

If he even has one.

But then, just as quickly

As I received it,

The image fell as flat 

as Passover bread,

Four days left over,

And that,

In a forgotten earthen oven—

An obscure but honest,

Odd similitude,

If either of these is a thing.

And it seems at times that I grab at

Myself like a speeding hand

Protruding through the window

Of an old sedan, 

With no delusion of ever actually

Catching hold of those floating 

Dandelion Seeds, 

That until me, 

Were aimlessly falling in no hurry 

Across the breeze,

Legions strewn alongside fence lines—

Yet, not a single one settling

For my hand.

I see the daylight of my own eve

At times as well as I grasp 

The hidden half of the 

Pythagorean theorem,

And I find that these scenes 

Often typify my passing beliefs,

Pulling my mind along

With them,

On an absurdly abstract path,

To bare out the simple truth

Of all things lovely in this life—

Reminding me of 

The way you move your most

Gentle self, simply,

Through it.

And I try not to allow you 

To go a day without

Hearing those things from

My lips that could encourage,

For my own sake— 

And not yours—

Much more of it, 

Or at least as often as your

Heart thinks 

You should hear them.

For instance, in this image

Of a dawn filled with horses,

I was brought on a path—

Though labyrinth-like—

Eventually to it.

And by it, I mean,

That sum or one thing

About shoeless,

Longhaired beauties,

Picking flowers, 

Tails swinging—

And how it moves me; 

And that movement, 

By a meter, 

Off by a thirty second in rhythm,

With its absence making melodies,

That much sweeter—

Perfect in its off centered beat,

Which to me,

 Is of your very essence.