The Poet What is a poet? Life offers him so many pleasures, he often dances with joy. Requests are made, that on his journeys others join; Sailors, ahoy Months and years are filled with play. Each object he sees as a toy; this occurs no matter the day. Magical are the pulsating visions, and stories, present in his mind. Each one deserves an embrace. The urge to display these wonders means they can often be put down in haste. Later the search for perfection sets in; the quest shall begin to let each of heaven's angels rest on the head of a pin. Haunted by sights of things past, he displaces with a rose, on whose petals tears of rain roll. Alas, each he greets with courage he knows will last. Inspiration arises with the sound of trumpets blaring. Bursts of thunder announce their call. They can live in dungeons, vast forests, or a mountain top; no matter where; there he will find a fountain. Gates will open, ideas can then flow. Precious are these things; their light is so sweet, they often glow. Their hearts, and minds, soar on the wings of elegant, delicate, birds. Free, they always desire to be. Never shall one belong to a herd. They transport themselves. Around the globe they go. Where have all the great ones gone? I don't know.