The poetry he sees
He reads not the works of Neruda or Auden,
He writes not poems of elegant grace and beauty,
To read his poems, see what is reflected in his eyes;
As he looks at the sunset and is lost for a second,
See that sweet ode to an everyday sight?
Read it in his eyes and follow him for more –
As he looks at that girl and his heart wonders for a while
If it could be her smile that is to greet him every morning, and
Writes that elegy in the moment she fades away from view.
The poems to be found thus, of every form they are –
They move with him and is all around, everywhere –
His spoon as he sees it lying on the plate;
With half eaten rice cakes and an orange peel,
Is his sonnet of thanks, his hallelujah.
No this poetry is not found in books nor written.
He lives his poems, sees and breathes them.
He never has read a poem nor thought of writing one,
But if he sees beauty enough to stand and wonder,
The poetry he sees is poetry enough.