Upon my shelf there sits a small, green book
Well used, though not by me, but well thought of.
It tells of sound and sense, of form and rhyme,
Things I have learned since I was but a child.
Things of the heart and soul that call the mind.
Poets pen the words an artist avers,
Not for walls and stares these sensual sounds;
They are meant to be heard. To read is half,
Lift them from the page – your voice their freedom!
Without speech, poetry dies. Sound the art:
Onomatopoeia reverberates
The bards who had naught but their voice for paint
Understood – sound, rhythm, evocation!
Always there is magic in words well strung.
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