Watching The Poet - A Memory

The cadence of his words as they rise and fall
a rhythmic rocking of syllables
crashing against the shore
of my being.

Ebbing
gentle
soothing
inspiring reverie
as it retreats to a whisper.

Then the waves return. . .
wiping away the footsteps
embedded in the sand
of my lonely shore.

Washing it clean
with the power
of his words.

Dedicated to James Smith 1926-1983 - A True Poet.

I fell in love with poetry at an early age. My father used to sit at the table and scribble for a few minutes, then say - 'listen to this' and he would read aloud what he had just written.

The cadence, the rhythm, the beauty of the words had me hypnotised.

He then used to screw up the paper and throw it in the bin! . . . and I would feel a sense of loss and outrage - why did he throw it away ?!! I would often rescue the crumpled paper and keep it. But to him, the moment had gone. He didn't need to keep his words. . . I did.

I do the same, I suppose. Sometimes things well up in me and I sit with the feeling and type. It appears on the screen, no longer inside me but out there. . .

Instead of crumpling the paper, I press publish and it appears on my blog.

Technology has a lot to answer for! ;-)