prose piece (The Calling)

The Calling


The poet held the moment like a lover reading every line every word every phrase and even knowing it

by heart on a small stage you become bare you stretch the vowels and curl the consonants rising with

emotion ringing in their ears something happened when the poet had no voice losing the sun from the

sky the poems could not fly streams of words could not flow if the voice could be found it would be

inside the heart of the park speaking and thinking with feet and hands well then the poet went a long

ways on trails that unwind like ribbon and he made a new voice pouring through the air from the

cup of his hands a louder hollar and though being a poet might have been something this was an

actual calling


s.m.g.