The Poet Warrior

The Poet Warrior

Forty four curves
around the bend
in the river
and I
crash
into the boulder—
flow through rapids,
and wash up
on the dry bank.

I bear arms—
not the dangling limbs
that can carry or kill.
Nor the metallic sticks
with fire
for pricks.

Nor the god
we all claim
as our own, our way.

No.

None
of that.

Only my messages,
captured
in a letter
from the pattern
that connects—

the glistening
of tiny dots—
myriads of them
combining in light,

combining
to make
what I “see.”

Though I see it
only by listening
to the hum beneath the buzz,
and the song not of the dove,
or of the crickets,
or of the drum—

no

I hear it in the Poem,
only by listening

to the quiet
behind the beat,
the rising and falling of the breath,
and the song not of the clouds,
blocking my view of the blue,
or of that darn drum—

no

only of the arms,
the arms
of the Poet-Warrior . . .





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This poem is from "Bottle in the River" 
                     about a Poet's journey down a river, chasing a bottle
                     tossed by the fingertips of "that I am."
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Written within the parameters of the theory of "Multivalence"