I've taken my postscripts a bit further. Some of them describe the difficulties of writing a particular poem, or the poetic principles used to create it. I've made some postscripts into prolonged prose poems, extending the subject matter in ways I couldn't do in the poem itself to form a pleasant backdrop on which to sketch my more detailed poetic pictures.

Another more artful reason for my postscripts is to ease the prose bent public into a proper reading of poetry. Poems are like tiny gems, polished to perfection by years of rewriting. They deserve slow study under a jeweler's glass to search out hidden beauty beneath their surface. But being so small they are often overlooked and underread by a fast paced public used to reading reams of words at a sitting, and to judging substance by breath instead of depth.

To help such poem challenged people dally awhile over my hard won words, I mounted my gems in a larger frame work of prose postscripts designed to bring out their beauty, much as a fine piece of jewelry enhances the aura of precious stones it contains. Possibly the larger mass of words in the poem and postscript together will provide more substance to the prose oriented public than the scantily clad poem alone might suggest, and cause them to spent more time considering its meaning. Possibly some of the technical tricks discussed in the postscripts will cause them to reread the poem to see how they hold words together and give lines a song like quality. Possibly some ancillary idea presented in the prose will catch their fancy, and lead them to the deeper meaning of the poem. In any case, the extra words will at least slow readers and make them see the poem for what it is: not simply one dimensional, declarative prose to be rushed through and taken only at face value; but a craftily concocted puzzle to be slowly savored and lovingly deciphered over several sittings.

I've also included postscripts showing how my journey into the forest of poems was fostered and guided by God. My early paraphrases of well known poems are included with comments on why I felt justified in modifying the work of established artists. These early collaborations show how God slowly and subtly brought me into the art to serve his goals as well as my own. I hope that this story might encourage others to follow the same trail of testing and enjoying the poems of others, then fine tuning them to fit their own needs, and finally to begin writing independent works of their own with the goal of creating not only sweet sounding verse, but also of saving some of their own hard won insights to help hungry readers, especially those of their own families, lead more fulfilling lives.

Don Lusk

Death creeps up
Like a stalking cat,
Stealthy and disguised,
So small and far away that
At first, it almost seems unreal.

But through the years
Of ever silent stalking,
As it edges always nearer,
Its presence grows full stature,
Until at last, its paws upon your chest,
It's grown to be an all absorbing beast of prey.

Your age infested body,
Worn by years, racked with pain,
Too tired to fight further, gives up hope.
The beast bends nearer, head comes closer,
Jaws full open. It's fetid breath fills your failing
Lungs; yet it only licks your face,
The cool, comforting kiss
Of a long lost friend.

(A Helping Hand)

Like a climber, looking down from snow swept mountain peak,
Sees more clearly his luck to have escaped,
Unscathed, the jagged cliffs below;

Like a soldier, surviving scores of bloody battles,
Sings praises of his trusty friends
Who helped him bear death's daily glance;

Like a child, grown-up, understands,
And then extols the sacrifices
Parents made to form his mind and soul;

Just so, and even more, do I, amidst my pile of ancient years,
Now pen this song to celebrate the miracles
God has wrought to bridge the valleys of my life;

As testament to the loving care He has for all His creatures,
Which I've witnessed, first hand, through my growing years;
And as a helping hand to those who yet toil in life's dark places.

(First Snow, Lost Spring)

Winter white shrouds the ground with a silky sheet of frozen dust.
Tufts of tired grass reach through like dying fingers to grasp
The last rays of warmth in a world suddenly gone dead with cold.
Thick gray clouds congest the sky, sending gasps of snow like flies
Swirling earthward in frenzied flight hoping hapless creatures to torment.
Their wind born whines chorus to angry howls as they whip 'round
Corners, and whistle through lifeless limbs of leafless trees.

Winter winds invade my house and chill my aging bones,
Reminding me another season's past and can never be recalled.
They freeze my thoughts in this hopeless frame of mind.
The winter deep within grows more depressing with each day.
My springs and summers all are spent, the cost of life's brief joy,
And can never buy reprieve again from winter's wasting cold.
The balmy breeze of youthful promise will bear me forth no more.
Only icy age is left to fire up a failing heart and warm a frosted soul.

I see a hardy rabbit wrapped in furry armor hurry to outwit the cold.
If lucky, he might see another spring, or more likely be a winter's meal.
Yet he struggles on his given way with no worry of tomorrow's woes,
Enjoying meager pleasures of the day; following the message fixed within
His bones: to outlast the chilling thief that stole his grassy world away.
I see a deer prance through dried out brush and bones of used up trees,
Searching long since fallen food, avoiding enemies who stalk and kill,
Full of life, enjoying grace; happy to be alive in spite of hungry days ahead.

A hawk circles overhead searching scraps of food that scamper to their holes,
Grasping onto anything to help him live 'til spring, delighting in his gift of flight,
Showing off his mastery of the sky, praising his creation with such airy grace.
These creatures have their strategies to survive this season of decease.
Winter winds do not destroy their deep resolve to overcome the obstacles ahead.
Tomorrow's trials do not decrease the joy of what they've been bequeathed.
For them existence is itself a gift, even with the griefs that living life must bring.

Then why do I with my keener mind feel the pain of winter so much more.
Memories of summers past show stark contrast with the frozen days I face.
My spirit sags at such depressing loss. Better like the furry forms outside,
Enjoy the pleasures still at hand (though only shadows of what I had before),
And not think back to better times when life seemed almost limitless.
Understand my lot amid these winter years is progress toward a mystic goal,
Not eternal spring whose sunny pleasures only satisfy a portion of the soul.

We all must look ahead, but not to deeper winters that will surely come,
Instead to growth of spirit that they bring (which summer's joy can never teach).
Like the hurried hare, harken to the message written deep within our souls,
To see what surely is the path for which we all were placed within this life:
The triumph of our everlasting spirit in spite of winter's icy hand.
For the soul alone grows stronger as the years pile up past recall,
While all else dies and withers like the frozen leaves of fall.

Surprising Insights

Some poems are so spontaneous they almost write themselves! They need no predetermined plan, no analogous literary pattern, no reams of rough drafts; they're just pure energy; immediate inspiration that boils over searching words to energize to life. So it was with my poem "Winter Winds". It is my first such spontaneously inspired poem after years of painstakingly putting together pattern pieces. All my other works were conscious efforts to compose on a specific subject, follow a predetermined plan or correct what I saw as shortcomings in other's work. This poem just jumped into my mind on the spare of the moment like a message sent from another world: a surprising insight; an instant inspiration spontaneously generated and easily unleashed.

We had a long warm fall. It was sunny and mild almost to mid December. One morning I awoke to find the sun gone and in its place a gray, blustery day with sharp white flakes flying around. There was a light snow cover already on the ground. As I looked out of the window that morning at the thin white dusting, its stark beauty struck me. The contrast with the mild weather we'd been having until then made the day seem more severe than it actually was. I spontaneously composed the first verses which have remained almost unchanged since.

What made this an even more unusual instance of inspiration was my incapacitated condition. I was recovering from minor knee surgery and was barely able to walk. I had been off my feet for many weeks and unable to resume my normally active life. My recovery was progressing more slowly than the doctors had predicted, and I wondered if I would ever walk again. I felt my age more than at any other time because of this inactivity. I was so depressed that my description of the snowy day reflects this feeling. Reading it afterwards I was shocked at its extremely negative tone, especially of the initial verses. Yet the poem has become one of my favorites despite its somber outlook. It captures an aspect of winter I could never see before, yet one that is surely an essential part of its nature and ours too: death before rebirth!

I was very depressed before and during writing of this poem. But immediately after finishing the first verses, my outlook improved dramatically. The poem was not my usual way of looking at life; not the way I wanted to view existence. I understood, or thought I did, that suffering was part of our life here. Moreover, growing old, getting sick and eventually dying were things I expected as a prelude to a better after life. It seemed to me that the poem needed a more positive ending to reflect what I really believed life to be: the way I should feel about life as a God fearing Christian, so I added a concluding verse that drew some positive lessons from my negative feelings. I enjoyed rereading my verses about winter, and a certain negative tone is necessary to capture its essence, but if the words left me with only an unhappy feeling, what good are they in helping soothe my earthly pain? To correct this I made the last verse an affirmation of my beliefs, so I would be cheered by the poem even though it grew out of depressing circumstances. Now the poem has a positive effect on me that is reinforced each time I enjoy the depressing descriptions of winter. In fact, whenever depression gets me down, I reread the poem to review my understanding of life, and so dispel the psychological demons haunting me.

This progression of events raises an interesting question: what changed my very negative view of life in the few hours it took me to jot down the first draft of my verses? Could it have been that putting my depressing feelings into words somehow defused their power over me, much like talking through one's troubles in a psychologist's office defuses psychological sickness? Possibly just reading my dark thoughts with a rational eye put them in some sort of perspective? Maybe just connecting them to other aspects of nature like the trials other creatures must endure, or the beauty of the natural world of which we're all a part and whose laws govern our lives, helped me understand them? Possibly just the act of creating something I considered worthwhile, while feeling so depressed revived my sense of self worth? What ever it was, the poem, even in its initial stages, was an unexpected source of solace that rid my mind of its depressing feelings.

So inspiration can occur in many unusual ways, not only in carefully contrived situations when we are in peak form, but also spontaneously, even when we are out of sorts. No matter how inopportune the time, inspiration is still a gift and we must reach out to gather it in no matter what the circumstances. Even a depressing sort of inspiration can capture extremes of emotion not normally open to us in our more positive moments; and that's what gives poetry its unique flavor, its ability to delve the depths of emotion, and paint an artistic word picture of them. Later, when we regain our emotional equilibrium and reread the work, we see the beauty behind the depressing circumstances, and learn to look past the bitterness and bad feelings that brought the work into being. Finally, it could be argued in light of this experience that even our trials and sufferings are forms of inspiration that lead to new insights not only in our art, but in our personal lives as well. They enable us to better judge our place in life and understand our mission here on earth. If so, they would be the most surprising sources of inspiration one could ever imagine.

I ventured to the far North Woods, very late last fall,
To see deer dance and hear first hand, the wild wolf's plaintive call.
But it rained most days of my retreat, so the best that I could do,
Was find some outdoor interests indoors, my nature to pursue.
I came upon a taxidermy temple deep within the wood,
Where all the animals of the world, in their native settings stood.
But it was so near to winter, no watchers or workers were around;
So I wandered through the ghostly hall in a silence most profound.
The skins were stuffed so perfectly, their poses looked so real,
A strange sensation seized me; I was captive in their field.
I mused: "Our dead are buried soon, so their spirits can depart,
But these creatures stand forever, and this signal won't impart.
Their spirits may still linger near, held on by life-like ways,
And when alone, might sneak back in, to re-enliven their stuffed days."
A large leopard loomed above my head, mounted in a tree,
And I thought I saw a muscle move and his eyes affix on me.
I could read his thoughts in those angry eyes : "You cruel killing man,
You've stuffed my hide and forced my soul forever here to stand.
It was fun awhile to run the plains and conquer jungle strife.
But its like hell to be stuck in here for more than just one life.
I have you now my evil hunter. You're trapped in my domain.
You'll pay all right, from all of us, for all our lasting pain."
His muscles tensed and his lips drew back in an angry, viscous curl,
But he couldn't spring 'cause his feet were fixed to the branches of this world.
"You poor old wretch," I thought to him, "You're stuck there like a block.
No satisfaction you'll have today as long as this world is your rock.
It may seem so real, even everlasting, and feel awhile so fine,
But it's only an illusion that undoes your dreams with time."
His eyes went dull as he heard my words, resigned to his fixed fate.
So I stumbled off with my worn out knees and frame so over weight,
But I sensed a twinkle from his eye as he watched my painful walk.
"You're half fixed now with joints near set. Be careful how you talk.
It won't be long before you're stuffed and boxed beneath some tree,
But they'll stuff you slow so the pain is more, than it was when they did me."
I nodded back that he had won, but didn't have the heart
To tell him when my body's stuffed, my soul can still depart.
And if I live my life here well, in heaven, forever, I'll be blessed;
But if I don't, then like that cat, to a world as dead, will I be pressed.

Postscript to "Ghost Cat"

Verse Versus Art

One of my favorite word books is Ogden Nash's Bed Riddance. What I thought was a poem book when I bought it in the '60's, I have since found is only a wonderfully worded book of rhymed pieces about the problems of sickness, aging and curmudgeonly behavior. Much later in the '90's, when I began to study poems seriously, I uncovered its true identity. I tried to enjoy Nash's pieces as I did serious poets like Shakespeare and Whitman. Nash's words were ear pleasing enough, certainly soundly chosen to make maximum music; but they left me with a feeling of emptiness after I finished them. I like to memorize my favorite poems to savor their insights and sweet sounds without being bound to the printed page. This did not work with Nash's crafty cadences. In fact, after a few repetitions they became almost boring. The reason is: they are not true poetic pieces; not by any artifice real art; just venial verses.

Nash's book underscores the differences between the art of poetry and the invention of verse; between lasting words that enlighten the mind and inconsequential observations that humor the imagination. Verse is more light-hearted as well as light- headed, and is mostly meant to entertain. It's generally concerned with less weighty, more trivial topics. However it uses the same rhymes, rhythms and word joinings as poetry, anmaybe even to a higher degree because they are not inhibited by having to convey the deep meanings and complex imagery that poetry does: thoughts the poet has created from his first hand exposure to inspiration. Verse, however, has no such carefully drawn word pictures as pure poetry: no soul wrenching descriptions, or carefully conceived metaphors to explain one exotic thing in terms of another, more familiar one; no concentrated meaning squeezed into the minimum of words; no multiple layers of reality enfolded within each other. Most of all, it has no insightful lessons to fill the house so carefully constructed by the artfully joined words. Shakespeare's sonnets are memorable not only for their singing syllables, but even more for their enlightening insights. Nash's verse is only worth its words: sweet sounds, possibly interesting ideas at least initially, but no enduring insights proceeding from them.

I decided to do a verse piece to improve my rhyming skills. As a beginning poet this was the most difficult aspect of the art for me. I would create a thorough thought outline, and detailed word images of my ideas, but then had a difficult time finding rhymes to round out my work. Verse allowed me to concentrate on the words first, and insights second, instead of vice versa; to create entrancing echoes before worrying about artistic understanding; in short, to work on form and let substance follow later. But I wanted my verse to serve up more thoughtful meals than Nash's shallow dishes; to have some more sustaining lesson from the sweet sounds to justify their existence: perhaps not arty images in every line, but at least a hint of an insight to enhance its sensual satisfaction; possibly just part way between Shakespeare's pure poetry and Nash's frivolous verse; just enough art to wade waist deep in its waters, rather than to totally immerse myself in its mysteries.

My favorite verse work of Nash's is "Next" about someone falling asleep in a museum and awakening at midnight to see the skeletons of the prehistoric animals cavorting around amid their artificial surroundings. After a particularly ingenious word picture of the proceedings, Nash concludes by having one of the fossils confide to the sleeper that its not so bad to be extinct: an arresting concept to begin with, but a rather weak insight as an ending. He may have meant that growing old is not so bad, but does not reinforce this idea in any other lines, so it does not resonate with the rest of the piece. Likewise, I've often felt that life-like displays in museums, especially those of human figures engaged in their everyday activities, hides some alternate kind of reality. They seem so real in their life-like poses, their authentic costumes and their totally absorbing activities. I've often thought about doing a piece exploring their unusual existence, but could never come up with an adequate enough insight to be gleaned from their stupefying situation, a difficulty Nash seems to have wrestled with also.

I recalled a particularly memorable instance of this sensation on a camping trip to the north woods of Wisconsin. I discovered a surprisingly large, well done museum of taxidermy outside of a small town hidden away in the forest along a local highway. There were hundreds of displays, animals from all over the world; all artistically arranged and placed in their natural settings. It was housed in a large hall with no enclosures so one could easily see every display from anywhere in the hall. It was late fall, and the hall was totally deserted as I walked through it. The combined effect of seeing all those life-like animals gathered around me, as far as I could see, was unnerving. Individually, they were just stuffed animals, but taken together they seemed to form an alien dimension existing alongside our own familiar reality. Alone in such a ghost-infested setting, I could almost feel the fierce spirits of the once living animals around me. I was literally, as well as spiritually, outnumbered by these foreign "life forms". Here was a deeply moving instance of delayed inspiration resurrected by a bit of shallow verse: a memory that might be a good basis for a poem-like piece; actually only half an inspiration since just a feeling, not an insight, was involved. Thus was born the basis for my verse piece "Ghost Cat."

I began the work with only a loose outline of a general idea instead of the detailed thought pictures I used for past poems. I then concentrated on the words: finding rhymes first, then building thoughts around them. This simplified the difficult task of getting the words to work together, and to mirror ideas expeditiously. It had the added advantage that the rhymed words suggested many novel and unexpected ideas which I might never have thought of using my usual procedure of working from thoughts to words. Here, then, is an example of serendipitous insight, or better yet, subconscious inspiration. It's almost as if new insights were being sent to me from deep in my psyche or from outer space or even from God Himself.

This is one reason why verse is easier to concoct than conventional poetry. Unexpected ideas are suggested by the rhymes as the work progresses, aiding creativity, so the entire verse work does not have to be totally thought out beforehand as poems usually are, but unfolds as it is composed, surprising even the writer himself as he works through it. Of course a few key lines must be done the traditional way, from thoughts to rhymes to polish the piece and bring out its best luster. But such more difficult writing is relatively limited, so creativity is kept fresh, moving the piece along faster than when trying to round out complex and completed thoughts with rhymes. The poet is motivated by his steady progress, and the surprising aspects uncovered by the verse, both of which pull him forward through these difficult areas.

I still had to find a way to make my verse work more than just pretty, but empty words; to find some meaningful residue that would remain after the enticing echoes die out. During 1999 my health remained poor. Problems plagued me as I reached my sixty- third birthday. My knee had not healed properly after surgery, and walking, running and even driving were difficult. My back became strained as a result, and I had to sleep in a chair most nights. Stomach and prostate problems made even everyday maintenance activities painful. My store of energy dwindled more with each month. I didn't have the enthusiasm for life I had when I was younger, possibly because there was so much less to look forward to; so much less growing and experiencing left for an aging senior to anticipate. My outlook was limited by my health and energy, and the very maturity I had fought to gain, made life miserable. I could almost understand how people older than myself, and more infirmed, might consider a long life not a blessing, and an endless existence almost a curse. Life is a gift if you can fully lead it, but a grief to those unable to enjoy what everyone else takes for granted.

It occurred to me that the museum life I was exploring, whether stuffed skins or immobilized skeletons, though they may have a sort of endless existence, a perpetual life that we all seem to wish for, are likewise limited by the walls of their worlds, by the very uniqueness of their universe, as I am by the humors of my health. They are forced to exist in an artificial world with no chance to grow or challenges to meet. Even though they have found a fountain of youth and have an eternal, trouble free existence, they're severely limited by their lack of freedom that makes their everlasting heaven more of an unending hell. Likewise my secure retirement and the lovely lake home I was building, provided me with a trouble free existence, yet my marginal health minimized my ability to enjoy the challenges of life, and made me feel a close kinship with these immortality- encaged creatures. In this case death, especially death with the possibility of a pleasant after-life, might be preferable to perpetual youth with its unending struggles. Here was a fitting insight to accompany my forgotten feelings from the ghostly museum.

From this analysis it seems that verse does have some advantages over its more artistic cousin, poetry. While verse does not have the depth that comes from thoughts directly dictated by inspiration, it does have a more spontaneous and flexible nature. It calls up feelings and ideas we do not realize dwell within us, a sort of key to unlock our subconscious store of inspiration. In short, it has better words because they aren't forced to fit preconceived ideas and complex images. Thus verse seems to be a more efficient way of building poem-like pieces. The more difficult job of rhyming words is done first with few constraints, and the more flexible task of finding insights done last to fit the words; more flexible because thoughtful insights can be described many different ways, whereas words, like concrete that has once set, have limited meaning. So while verse does reverse the creative process of poetry for a lighter touch, it also reinvents it by resurrecting unexpected insights from the dying echoes of our experience, and provides more perfect word progressions with which to describe them.

The desert parched, awaits its single summer shower,
To bring forth life sheltered in her sandy womb,
While tropic climes have frequent rainfall almost every hour,
To nourish suckling plants, filling forests with their bloom.
As earth unevenly imparts her lively liquor 'round,
So fortune favors some whose only art is play,
While serving other lives where love and care abound,
Only suffering and sorrow to feed them on life's way.
Fortune's kiss gives vibrant growth, but oft deformed and weak.
Such beauty born of ease grows to graces that soon fade.
But scarcity and struggle send roots more strong and deep,
The Oak's gnarled progress long gives satisfying shade.
Like arid plains we wait for fortune's briefest shower,
But her gift is in the dryness, not her dewy flower.

An Enduring Art

"Fortune's Favor" grew from the barren ground of personal problems, and flowered into a God centered view of life which sustained me through a most depressing time. It's patterned after Shakespeare's sonnets which draw insights from his wonderfully worded pictures of nature. I had been paraphrasing some of these, and decided to try writing one of my own. I chose a harsh aspect of nature to match the barrenness of my own situation. By searching it for a saving lesson, I was able to see some good in my own sufferings. I was inspired by desert creatures and how they survived such harsh conditions because of special gifts given to them by God. I felt a kinship with them as I battled the dryness of my own professional life. Creating the poem helped me through these dark days, and made me see that God had also given me special gifts to survive my inhospitable environment. As my first fully original work, it represents a push down the path of poetry by a providing God.

Problems with my employer deepened as he intensified cost cutting efforts by trying to oust us older engineers with psychological pressure. I was downgraded from advanced engineer to just-about-janitor. Technical ideas I suggested were either ignored, or credited to others. Coworkers hesitated talking to me for fear of being contaminated by the plague that made me such a pariah to our employer. When our research center was modernized, everyone received a computer: everyone, that is, except myself. Instead, I was given an ancient, manual typewriter for my work. I was humiliated at every opportunity, yet kept faith that things would improve if I just persevered: possibly one of my ideas or inventions might resurrect my career; maybe a change of management would lift the curse from me. Throughout my thirty years with the company, I had always put maximum effort into my research, and now despite so many successes, my professional career was disintegrating before my eyes.

Things did change, but not in the self justifying way I had hoped for. A sympathetic God chose to grant me only small favors, just enough to help me endure each day's anguish; things that only a loyal servant searching for his hand could see. Once I recovered from the blow to my pride of being so unjustly treated, I discovered an inner resolve to survive their tactics. Though I had few resources to work with, I applied those that were available to me in unusual ways, and began unearthing more new ideas for solving technical problems and improving products than at any time in my career. These ideas, though seemingly ignored, began appearing in other people's research reports. I even learned to enjoy typing reports on my old "hard handed" typewriter. Its keys required more force than electronic keyboards, and using it became a mild form of manual exercise to relax me, much as knitting might. As a result I documented all my ideas so extensively, there could be doubt who originated them. At least the company could not complain that my contributions to research were lacking, even in my more manual, technician's role. God had given me some success in my research despite my lack of resources: success so I could hold my job and support my family; success to maintain my sanity and self respect.

The best gift God granted was an insight into the power of poems. Creating and recalling them calmed my mind in these difficult circumstances. It provided a perfect world where right mindedness is always rewarded. Their lessons, repeated over and over, reinforced my faith that God loved me and would see me through my trials. Now from the secure peak of retirement, looking back over the lowlands of that lifescape, I see that the technical ideas I prized so highly were just mirages to draw me forward. As I read my reports and patents where such ideas are entombed, they give me scant pleasure. Their words don't sing, just dryly describe. They contain no universal truths, just partial solutions to limited technical problems affecting only a small part of our lives. Their importance seems to shrink the more I separate myself from the commercial interests of my old company. But the poems God gave me are like trusty friends who fought beside me in heroic battles. Their voices ring out with a rich resonance espousing the most important aspects of our existence. If anything, they've become more powerful over the years as I have witnessed their transforming effects at work in my life. Truly God's gift of poetry helped ease the burden of those soul wrenching years, and led me out of my valley of shadows into the sunshine of a new day.

From this it seems that all art, and especially poetry, is meant not only to delight our senses, and inform our minds, but also to soothe our souls. As great art endures through the ages of time, so it helps us endure through our ages of trial. It helped me bear the burden of my depressing season. By calming my mind it helped me accept trials which I could not overcome, and which I was meant to experience to perfect my soul. God's gift of poems was His way of showing me a deeper meaning to life than just scientific success or professional advancement; an answer to my prayers without altering His plan and the trials He predestined to perfect my fault-filled self; a way to make my life mean something when everything I had accomplished professionally had been taken from me. When I had lost all my friends and had only Him to rely on, He heard my prayers, and gave me a greater gift than the commercial success I coveted. He gave me an art by which to understand life, and a way to further perfect my soul; an art with which to endure life's difficult times, which He himself had predestined me to bear to perfect His art, namely me, so that our art, my perfect spirit, could endure forever in His heaven.

It's such a curse
To write in verse.
It fills the mind,
But not the purse.

We seem to shirk
All normal work,
Probing depths
Where poems lurk.

We choose our words
To fly like birds,
And corral new thoughts
From grazing herds.

But we also need,
Other lives to lead,
But can't stop rhyming,
Till our lines succeed.

Our words inspire,
Till we can't retire,
Ear full echoes,
That won't expire.

Words interrelate,
Ideas inseminate.
From this passion,
Poems proliferate.

We feel our fate
As not ungreat,
Sound and thought,
To sweetly mate.