Solitary Man
Solitary man living on his private island,
setting up his own way of life,
faithful to his convictions,
alone in his thoughts and revelations,
miles out at sea but yet upon the shore,
then past the shore into the hinterland
and into the dramas and delights of humanity
with his eyes fastened to their desires and deeds,
collecting words and words beyond,
words that would die if left alone,
words with palpitating desires to
propagate with other words
and melt into their loving arms
and form a sacred union blessed by the Almighty,
and words with spears that penetrate the heart,
that slither through the fissures of the skin
and reach deep into the jungles of the soul,
words with heated pistons that
drive the engines that drive the thoughts
into primal spaces and spaces beyond,
and words that dig up words buried
deep in the catacombs,
that bring them back to life and
nourish them with the blessed nectar,
putting them into rhythmic stories
and giving them wings to fly with them,
and words that go inside and
mingle with the drama,
that grow fangs that bite into the flesh,
that tear down the walls that joy erected
and pour the sadness into the empty spaces,
bringing the story to you
and letting it settle down in the spirit,
and words that bring joy upon a golden platter,
that paint the sky a bright pastel color,
that lift you up and give you wings,
and invite you to romp with them in the clouds.
Solitary man, living on his private island,
the little man with big words stuffed inside him,
the unassuming man behind those words,
the instigator of what they do to the spirit,
responsible for the actions of mankind,
is the poet who lives on Poets’ Island.
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