Do not confuse the poetry

Do not confuse the poetry

With the man

A flimsy contrived rhyme

Or worse

Blank verse

Perhaps it is better

Or is it classically inferior

I know not

There is always an argument raging

About content and form

The truth of words

The power of the message

When reality lies at the bottom of a bottle,

Or at the wrong end of a barrel

Held in the hand of a righteous man.

If there really was a Jesus

Where did he learn to read?

The word is a closely guarded secret

Held by scribes

To keep the mass of people

Out of the garden

Where the tall trees grow

The apples hang until they fall

And a band of passing angels

Play a winter hymnal

Acapella style.

Dance to your daddy

When the boat comes in.

If we were all fishermen

What would be left to catch

When the bottom has fallen

Out of the market.

There will be no little fishy

To put in the little dishy

And the only thing of worth

Will be the stories

We tell our children

To help them sleep

Safe and sound

Developing their senses

As they grow

Wary of the pretty words all in a row

There is more depth in feeling

More meaning in a kiss

Well spent

On a lover's cheek

Than an arrangement of lines.

A hug from a child

Is worth more than sorrow

More painful than remorse

For a disordered world.

It may not be easy

To touch a heart

But make a start

And let the drunken poet go,

He may fall

But it is a shallow pool.