Making Ink

    Making Ink

We are ordained
to transfer "beauty authentic"
be it pumpkins dressed in frost
or cities sprawling need and greed
redeemed by infant's smiles
and old, independant souls
toddering along our ink.

We are the annointed.
Too busy to think our options through,
laying our ravaged souls open, plowed,
to harvest from our eye to hand
to hand and eyes elsewhere and othertime.
Letting, nay, pleading with them to wander
about our garden, plucking at will,
fruits it has taken our lifetimes to grow.

We are audacious,
who write to children yet unborn,
asking nothing but to put
our lives into our ink,
and stain their souls with every word!
Asking nothing but to invade
their libraries, minds, and memories
and to be quoted to their grandchildren.
Asking nothing but to have our words
set to music and ring out from their pews
and be engraved upon their stone archways,
to be their windows and doors backward in time
and, if we can, inspire another novice soul
to become annointed and ordained.
To sit beside us, grinding audacity and tears
into the ink of poetry.