Poetry

From within it comes
From that invisible portion of man
And it’s brought out
To be heard by the crowd

Relaxing, making happy, seeking
To cheer whoever has the hearing,
Like the soul of anything that seeks
To comfort the other soul.

My poem a song and prayer
That nature sings to itself
And rings its bells to its maker,
Has ever been and will be made louder.

Nature met it
Already here, they met it
They will leave but it will stay
Stay with the maker even in his presence.

This immortal entity
Is produced by the mind
Written by the hands
And read in sound by the mouth

Poetry, my poetry, is life without which
We march to the grave in mournful
Songs; in lines so short but meaningful,
All that has been, and yet will be.

To those who will only hear and criticize
Not even to cheer,
I leave you to ponder endlessly
Over it, in noisy struggle, as I rest peacefully.