a.d. winans | the poet


the poet knows
words are second to action
weaker than blood spilled
on the battleground
of human rights and dignity

the poet carries
the blood of the people
in his veins
he doesn’t speak in a rambling dialect
but in short sentences
he does not require a dictionary
to be understood

the poet is steeped
in ancient tradition
he does not play politics
he is politics

the poet is a tree with
far reaching branches
he is the crust
on a loaf of bread
he is the dream within
a dream

he is the mother giving
a newborn baby
the milk of life
he is the thunder in a storm
his words a bolt of lightning
that lights up the sky

he does not beg applause
or make love to the microphone
he carries humility
like a mother holds her baby
in a warm embrace

he lives on the edge
his eyes are his tongue
his tongue his strength
he is a gardener planting seeds
in mind gardens
he is the first ray of sun
that breaks through the morning fog

his words walk the streets
run a marathon
sleep with him
make love to him
the poet does not die
but lives on through eternity
waits like cosmic dust
to be reborn again

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