Poem Writing Comments

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.
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