A Poet Is A Naughty Child But
A good poet is a naughty child.
by Barry A. Lanier
Playing with people's emotions.
Stirring up forgotten memories.
Reviving repressed memories.
Laughing in the face of death.
Like a washwoman wringing the soiled shirt,
Rubbing edges of humanity, brushing scabs,
Looking for wrinkles in disrepair.
Verbalizing what adults will not.
Telling the truth, wars to be fought,
Dreams to be dreamed.
Souls to confess, songs to be sung.
Making meaning of life.
Dissecting feelings and thoughts,
Fashion fragments of life,
Bringing innocence into fashion.
Fashioning beauty from the barren.
In the silence of night,
A solitary figure,
Whose kingdom has no ending.