To A Dead Poet (Poetry)

At last, I have met the man I’ve waited for
though he is gone to this world — lost awhile
except for words on paper — thoughts condensed
like water running down a glass-sheer page.

And how he stirs me up — heats blood as if
he’s standing close enough to dig me in the ribs
insist ‘Wake up and write the life you’ve always dreamed.
Don’t be afraid to say just what you mean!’

And so I’ve shed pretence — all pose shucked-off
the rawness in me seeping out afresh
so little hidden now, but surface-drawn to face
whatever critics say — dismissed in faithlessness.

The chords I know, the truth has tunes that run
more intricate as understanding learns
to work perfection — smooth thin each silk-skin line
and like its plainness — show it grainy light.

And should I echo him — the man — it is pure love
and gratitude for guidance not too late.
His whisper lives and burrows in my ear —
I’m listening out for each warm gift he gives.