Poets are the Bell Ringers of the Soul

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POETS ARE THE BELL RINGERS of THE SOUL

Poets as a rule are high on adventure

Like wondering bards or prophets today.

Embracing hearts and minds with wisdom

Casting through verse their visions at play.

Poets have their dreams and their nightmares

Of love, life, death, faith and war.

They feel the pain and tragedy of others

Even those they’ve never met before.

They fan the flames of human compassion

With their stories of the failings of man.

Professing to follow a higher power

As they recruit whomever they can.

Poets are the bell ringers of the soul

As they depict the past, the present and beyond.

They sound their alarm of what lies ahead

As the missteps of man live on.

EDGAR ALLAN POE

One of America’s most famous writers

Was born in Boston, January of 1809.

Both his parents were failing actors

And his father was drunk most the time.

In 1810 Edgar’s dad disappeared

His mother died soon after.

A childless couple took him in

Raising him with love and laughter.

Edgar had a Negro nurse

Who brought him to her quarters.

There he listened to ghost stories

Far beyond earthly borders.

The strange tales he later wrote

May have come from her inspiration.

The words she used to describe death

Gave Poe his taste for sensation.

The Allans moved to England

Where Poe attended boarding schools.

There’s no doubt his time spent there

Sharpened his skills as tools.

Returning to Richman and back in school

He began to compose new verse.

Heavy debts forced him to leave college

As his life took a turn for the worse.

Poe caught a ride on a coal barge to Boston

Where he was unable to find employment.

A young printer agreed to publish his poems

Giving him hope and enjoyment.

Penniless, Poe enlisted in the army

And was accepted to West Point in 29.

Poe couldn’t stand not being a writer

Self-imposing his dismissal from The Line.

Afterward he became an editor and critic

And married his cousin who was thirteen.

Six years latter he discovered she was dying

Suffering once more the unforeseen.

He went through periods of insanity

Caused by grieving and functional fall.

He smoked opium and drank too much

Till at his doorstep death would call.

Edgar Allan Poe the master of verse

Still lives in our hearts today

Famous for The Raven and other great works

May his soul rest in peace we pray.

GOD’S POETS

The prize jewels of any nation

Are the philosophers of the heart.

How they think is universal

For it’s God who makes them so smart.

Most poets tell the truth of life

Though they may wrap it in beauty.

It's their passion, not their purpose

To compose is but their duty.

Poets have no reason to lie

When the truth is always so clear.

All that others say and do

Is but food for the poet's ear.

One merit of a poet's work

Which most people can’t deny.

They say more and in fewer words

To illuminate you and I.

God sent his poets down to earth

With words of wisdom and of worth.

That they might touch the souls of men

And bring them back to Him again.

A good poem paints a picture

For both your heart and brain.

It doesn't need a second chance

To make its meaning plain.

A good poem is like the flower

The lily or the rose.

God plants it in a poet's brain

And there its beauty grows.

A good poem like a cardinal

Is pregnant with song

You can’t help but hear its message

As it sings what's right or wrong.

A good poem helps us remember

What the joys of life are for

It makes us want to love someone

Till death comes knocking at our door.

God has always had his poets

Who He watches with love from space.

But Satan has his poets too

Who try to lead us from our grace.

King Solomon was a poet

Who spoke of love, life, death and war.

That lips were like threads of scarlet

And that breasts were roses and more.

The wild birds sing and flowers bloom

As clouds form figures in the sky.

But only humans will write poems

That shall last long after they die.

The eldest sister of all arts

Which some have called the devils wine.

Poetry is but pure passion

To stimulate the heart and mind.

POET'S WIFE

My reciting seemed to delight her

Though for me it was love at first sight.

When she found out I was a poet

She asked, what kind do you write?

Love poems, mostly, I told her

While we walked alone in the park

Love's fever became even warmer

As two shadows embraced in the dark

I'll always remember when first we met

I whispered a poem in her ear.

Ever since then how happy I've been

And other women I've no need to be near.

They say that poets are divine

Though my wife would argue, that’s not true!

For, whenever I lose my direction

It’s she who tells me what to do.

Where the city ends and the suburbs begin

We've built our home beneath the sky.

We’ll raise our babies with truth and love

Till one or both of us die.

A verse a day, I always say

Helps keep lawyers from my door

For when I'm paid for what I write

My wife loves me a little more.

ALL POETS SERVE A MASTER

Most poets have a bit of Solomon

Shakespeare and Poe within.

Constantly eager to share their visions

Of love, life, joy and sin.

Some guzzle whiskey

Some sip wine

Some prefer cola

And feel just fine.

Some smoke pot

Or suck cigarettes

Some abuse drugs

With lifetime regrets.

Some attend church

And sing of God

While others make fun

And call them odd.

All have a purpose

Which drives them to compose.

All serve a master

Who by free will, they chose.

DIVINE INTERVENTION

I never write a poem

That doesn’t write itself.

I catch a buzz and come alive

Like a puppet off it’s shelf.

Hearing many voices

Whose words are never mine.

My pen becomes a painter’s brush

Forming visions on a line.

I seem to be a better person

When it’s time to sit down and write.

A higher power guides my hand

Sharing wisdom by day and night.

People born to create

Have no choice but to perform.

It’s the rush of sharing their gift

That elevates them from the norm.

What would our world become

Without intervention from above?

Angry beings in a revolving cage

With no sense of passion or love.

Poetry is the lighthouse of life

Guiding the lost from a stormy sea.

Without it’s presence darkness prevails

Keeping us from all we can be.

Poems are used to convey passion

By poets of both good and evil mood.

Some are hateful others loving

Sharing thoughts to be consumed as food.

Verse can lead us to glory or doom

As we partake with others within.

Depicting our past, present and future

With words of man’s grace or sin.

People write poetry because they have no choice

Answering to the call of their gift.

Where some tend to pull their readers down

Others compose to give them a lift.

Always remember the power of poetry

Is used by both heaven and hell.

It’s up to us to choose our pleasure

As poetry remains alive and well.

Poetry consumed is where wisdom begins

As we heed to the whispers of the heart.

It’s easy to blame others for our dismay

When from ignorance we refuse to part.

Verse is a beacon of hope in the darkness

To help us navigate the pitfalls of life.

Far more tend to write it, than read it

That’s why there’s endless conflict and strife.

I write poems to help fuel the light

By sharing what God has given me.

With stories of love, life, war and more

Where heroes pray on bended knee.

Poetry is one of man’s oldest arts

Practiced long before words of print.

Every race had its masters of verse

In caves, huts, cabins or tent.

Stories in verse were handed down

From one generation to another.

The first told of love, war and more

And how to survive each other.

As man became more civilized

He could not help but wonder within.

Verse then took on a deeper meaning

With stories of faith, superstition and sin.

The act of reciting became in demand

As verse began to advance

Every tribe, city, town and village

Had someone who gave words romance.

Today’s poets are on the World Wide Web

Though many seem spiritually ill.

Thank heaven for all who still have God’s gift

To compose, teach, comfort and fulfill.

My favorite poet is God above

Who gives Earth its rhythm and rhyme.

Not pied pipers of misguided souls

Who promote distrust, hatred and crime.

Poetry is nature serenading in song

The peaceful roar of the oceans waves.

The wind through the trees and over the hills

And the flowers in the fields by the graves.

The sound of rain as it waters the thirsty

The songs of children at play in the park.

The far off rumble of trains or thunder

As they pass through the night in the dark.

The joy of our babies first words and steps

The passion of life with its heroes and clowns.

The on going struggle to survive our sins

As we proliferate in hamlets and towns.

My favorite poet is our Father of love

Who was first to know us before birth.

His poetry prolongs every thing we love

As His deliverance gives life its worth.

THE POWER of WORDS

Words are the most powerful tools used by man

As hearts and souls reach for one another.

Sharing feelings of fear, wisdom and joy

Or our love for a significant other.

Where would we be without words

Which inspire, unite and motivate.

Songs, poems, stories, blogs, books

Wars, religion, love, lust and hate.

Jesus preached words to the multitudes

And nourish their hunger within.

The stories we tell portray our spirit

As examples of weakness, triumph or sin.

When we fail to control the rage of our thoughts

What is easy to say becomes hard to forgive.

Words are visions which portray our intent

The better we communicate, the better we live.

By Conservative Poet

Tom Zart

Most Published Poet

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