This Is Not a Poem

This is not my pen
It is a painter’s brush which
Paints the pictures that take shape in my mind
A sculptor’s chisel which
Reveals the secrets hidden inside a rock
A magician’s wand which
Conjures up the worlds of my imagination
A pastor’s candle which
Lights up the sanctum of my consciousness

This not my paper
It is an artist’s canvas where
Images emerge like unseen specters
A beautiful garden where
Colors blossom and cascade like velvet petals
A cloudless sky where
Unconscious thoughts twinkle like bright stars
A rich, fertile field where
A universe germinates from a million seeds

I am not a poet
I am just a fortunate soul whom
Mountain peaks beckon like shining beacons
A thirsty traveler for whom
Rivulets, like rosaries, sing their quiet soothing psalms
A wandering dervish for whom
Sunsets spread out their sumptuous tapestries
A restless rambler to whom
Gentle winds whisper their wistful wisdom

This is not a poem
It is just a simple little song
My soul sings as it marvels at all this bounty
A merry little melody
My heart plays on the harp that thrums inside me
An unadorned little tune
My mind hums and whistles and yodels playfully
A universal little anthem
My imagination believes will bring us all together

3 thoughts on “This Is Not a Poem

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