[NicknamedBob]

"You have no idea what a privilege it is to have my two favorite living poets right here."

The Poem

The poem rests inside my head,
Like carvings set in stone.
And all I have to do is cut away,
The words that aren’t my own.

Every singing bit of rhyme,
Is like a memory.
So all I have to do is shed,
The parts that aren’t me.

One thing I often wonder,
As I chop the chips away,
How much of me is taken with,
The message I convey.

With all the mass of messages,
The scriptings that I’ve cleft,
When I set out the last of them,
Will anything be left?

NicknamedBob . . . April 6, 2004

[jaycee]

"Goodnight FRiends"

[Lady Jag]

That's an introspective one.

This is one of my favorites:

The Moving Hand

I see the Artist sweep the brush, And waken up a world. Just like remembered stories, When sparks are rising, swirled. The talent just amazes me, That with a moving hand, A landscape is uncovered, Where before, there was no land. To hold a brilliant flower, Or show a grove of pine, The Painter creates worlds unknown, By tracing out a line. The Creator shows no effort, For most of what is done, And just to shed a little light, He brought forth a new sun. And separated heavens, And let the waters flow, And breathed a life into the world, But was it just for show? NicknamedBob . . . June 4, 2004