Poem Writing Poem by James Gibbons

I write poems But I'm not entirely sure They are poems I think I seem to lack some knack, some little thing that blocks the outpouring of my expression. When a poem is read, its energies released; like Lazarus emerging from his tomb, it becomes alive; fulfilling its destiny; speaking a rhythmical quality, travels across time, It becomes a voice, the outpouring of a grateful heart. That special discovery, as lodestone points north, giving an unexpected insight, That magic ingredient that magnifies meaning. That special sauce, that unusual turn of a phrase, Gives wholly new meaning, As clay was put on the blind man's eyes so long ago.

Of course, maybe I'm expecting too much, a gardener whose flowers won't bloom! is no gardener at all.

Why do I have this desire for words, Words that flow together, mingle and then run together, as playful children. Their liquid laughter, flowing, splashing, as fluffy bouncing bumpy clouds, that shape and re shape in effort to tell their story. Words that spread their wings frolicking in formation, flying the breeze blown fresh spring zephyrs Or flow like the mighty waves; choosing whatever shape they may, Lined up, row upon row white frothed toy soldiers orderly race for the shore. Always moving, marching rhythms of the sea; And all the time joyfully bubbling, babbling In their effort to make me happy.

But is it really a poem?