A poet is a person that can never be described
Their thoughts a frantic frenzy they cannot hope to hide.
Their emotions, like the wind tossed leaves, in the months of fall,
Those months of bright splendor that answer winter's eerie call.
The crimson, gold and flaming orange, burst forth then-
Like the passions of a poets shaking, frenzied pen.
The wild gale, the cruel storm of icy rain's caress
Like the longing hopes and haunting dreams that so often do possess.
Can you take the autumn and stop it fast in time?
Can you take a poet and still their many rhymes?
How much simpler to stop the mighty ocean and calm its many waves,
To search the tunnels of the earth and mine it's countless caves.
With each groove upon a parchment or whispered word that rasped
They seek to write and understand that which cannot be grasped.
To understand why lovers fall and what force pulls them together,
Such things the poet will always write their page a yearning tether.
Like winter's chilling breath, upon Autumns fair shoulder
The knowledge of the words can only make them bolder.
And so it draws them deeper, to the world of the unknown,
Each day as moody or as bright as any fall has ever sown.
Do not try to understand them as you watch them at their work
They do not understand themselves, the mysteries that lurk.
Yet, they never drop their quill and cease to search and scheme
Each day a passion of the verse, each night a frenzied dream.
As long as their are autumns that spin to season's time
There shall be those who see it all in poems verse and rhyme.
As long as chilling days of blazon color take a yearly toll,
Their shall always be those who are born with a poets searching soul!
-Mindy Moyer (M.G.M)
Painting by: William Savage Cooper
Girl of a different Era 