Visit With The Poet

Through the mist of a dream,
I see the poet.
Hunched over his desk
Concentration across his brow,
He takes no notice of my presence.

His pen, poised over the blue veined paper
Clenched in a white knuckled hand
Does not work its magic,
Does not let the wondrous words flow
To caress the hearts and minds of the readers.

His desk, cluttered with fruitless attempts
Overflows with painfully empty blue inked one lined pages
And an ashtray filled with butts.
Lined paper rises above the rim of a wire basket
Overflows onto the floor
With poems started; never finished.

He turned tired eyes to me
Their bleary scarlet irises told a story
Too much caffeine, too little sleep
Too much nicotine, too few poems
Waiting for the perfect idea had ruined his imagination.

He spoke, voice crackly and dry
Like an autumn scarlet leaf blowing on a harsh October wind,
'You've come to the wrong poet for a lesson,
There is no such thing as the perfect poem
Because they don't see what you want them to see.

If you want them to see a rose, they'll see a daisy;
If you want them to hear a symphony, they will hear birds chirping;
If you want them to taste ambrosia, they will taste sugar;
If you want them to smell a spring rain, they will smell a dusty country road in drought;
If you want them to touch a child's hair, they will touch a satin sheet.

Do you see?' He shouted in a whisper,
'They will twist your words
And break you, mold you, into what they want.'
He turned away, dismissing me with a flutter of papers
And I awoke.