Mine is the inheritance

Mine is the inheritance

not some spreadsheet scion

counting great-grand bones

I’ve got the manner

and fire of heart

such counters can’t know

Life without creation's seed

existence without the need

they have nothing to share

Days without magic moments

Dull agendas that limit

times they could have cared

You can’t own poetry

there are not rights

inherent, entrusted or otherwise

It’s free to those

that can but know

the crises it decries

Whom should get payment?

the heart is essential

and can’t be recompensed

You can’t share credit

with the long dead

and retain poetry’s sense

That there is freedom

in the turned phrase

yet, you cannot doubt

Though they would believe

it’s better to slave

as the fire goes out

But I take exception

and have no desire

to poem beyond reason

I’ll take from paper

and commit to memory

my last poetic season

And ask no more

for a monetary unit

as if it pays

for the rags & bones

and the heart alone,

does a poet spend his days

4/26/09