POETS

This is another of my poems that I left marinating. It has been a few months, and I looked it over and decided to publish it. I made a couple of edits-a word here, an add there then I had CoPilot analyze it for me and this was it's core takeaway- "This poem is about the absurdity and holiness of being a poet — the ego, the doubt, the ritual, the loneliness, the hope — all wrapped in a voice that knows it’s both clown and prophet. You’re not just describing “a poet.”You’re describing the condition of making meaning when no one asked you to."

"All poets ache, even when they can't admit it."- Victor Mendez

POETS

2/22/2026

Self-made

Self-paid

A poet lays his paper down

Canvas of a writing clown

As he wonders

of the empty space upon which..

He'll lay his precious egg

Ruminating on sembling words

Too many coming

In tumbling surge

While not but a day ago

His mind was humbling

At the emptiness...

Of the sage

With nothing on the page.

Meanderings..

Of a fleeting comparison

Which he grasps

As a true sage speaks from the radio...

College brained

Wordsmith trained

A place the simple cannot attain

His offerings like that of Cain

While those of Abel

Bring the rains.

...And still...

If I can get just one to read

Let not these musings go to seed...

Only weeds of wastrels

Holding hope

That this time

It stands the scope

Worthy of the swooning masses

In the mind

Of what could be

Or yet again as I can see

Just a lonely squirrel Up in his tree

I come to you on bended knee

With latest acorn from my tree

Self-paid

Self-made

Peace