The Poet

A piece of paper, unlined and bare

Lies before the poets unwinding flair.

Wet ink on pulp shows ideas unleashing. 

The poets mind is now unrelenting.

In simple sentence or in compound structure,

the poets hand commences his inner struggle.

The spirits there, he can feel it.

But, will the paper, the ink reveal it?

When people read the poem, how can they know

whither the act was long or slow.

Could it be the poet just let it flow?

The spirit draws the poet, demanding,

requiring performance.

Authoring not from aberration,

but through warm, careful consideration.

At last, the paper lies alone on the table,

On the paper lies a thought, a feeling, an emotion

 for those that can feel able.

The poet rests now, resting for the future moment.

The moment he dreads, when someone asks,

What did you mean by that?

I beg forgiveness of those strict constructionist.  I am not a poet, unless this small piece vaults me into such distinguish ranks.  I think not.

I am an avid reader and honestly not much poetry.  When I was young and in the Navy fellow sailors would come around and present their poetry for review.  I was kind, but secretly I felt that they were short changing the reader as I didn't see the poetry but fragmented slices of life as they saw it.  

Years later as I was forced to consider poetry and read some; one of the main thrust by the professors was did we get what the poet meant by the poem.  According to the instructor these famous or lessor so, imported deep hidden meaning like the road less traveled.  Which I thought was rather obvious.  Thus it promoted me to write this one.