poets, prophets and kings

i sit in the car, eyes panning the craggy, dirty snowbanks. february's grey cold takes an herculean effort to face. in an era launched by the teaser "audacity of hope", it feels more like same old, same old.

these things come and go. as long as the sun rises and sets, there will be these kind of days. as long as the sun rises and sets, there will be a poet's voice infusing meaning to old, cold days and human efforts.

they can't be silenced, you know. the poets. they see the same sights as you and i, but, like a horse whisperer, they speak to them. living in the transition between the hardness of day and the ether of night, the poet pulls language from the speechless and translates it into nurture for our lost heart.

i have some favorite poets. they rescue me from a culture laden with sound bites, cliches and pundits. the proliferation of prophets of doom weigh down even the most buoyant spirit. they make the great depression sound like just an "o.k." one and what we are facing is more akin to something in the book of revelation. the pundits mix and spin and bake it all into a frosted bite of twit. those that would be king- the madoffs, the petters, the wall street blingos suddenly have no clothes. but the poets, ah.

pull the tears from my eyes. give voice to the visceral. raise laughter from my dust. you poets, you magic fairies of language that enlighten even this dullard's heart. i listen.

see www.mondaythrufriday.com and www.ecrivainattempts.blogspot.com