Poem 22. June 22

 

The Voice

It is not even a whisper, the voice I hear.

I do not turn toward it, left or right.

It is not a figure I see in my room, silent,

by the dresser, waiting until I wake to speak

to me.

 

There it is, now telling me poetry

is like minnows in Salt Creek, that peak

moment you saw them escaping the Jeep’s tires, silent,

unseen by the rest of the world. You did not write

that poem. You were not true to yourself, do not fear.

 

Understand this: a poem comes from a life, your life

& not from some salty buccaneer, harpooning a white

whale in fiction. Perhaps you think there is a stick

in the forest, pointing the way to words, similes—true?

No, it is only a stick pointing toward the sky. You are far

 

more than what you have written—you are far

more the poetry you have not written. Do

remember the minnows instead of the stick

for they are a found poem their flight

toward life is all they know of life.