Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Dead Poet


Celebrity voice impersonated.

Often times no one truly listens to us until we are passed on. Relinquished to ash and dust; our spirits departed and gone; our flesh rotting in the dirt. Dead.

I don’t mean listen in the mundane sense of the word. I mean when people really take the time to listen and understand the essence of our being. Our inner voice; our secret desires; the milieu of our mind, heart, and soul. Far more often than not, this sort of dissection and analysis doesn’t take place until we have traveled down that long and lonely road into the afterworld.

This is a frightening thought for most writers and poets; all creative people really. Their works of art - their writings - shunned, ignored, and unappreciated while life still breathes within them, but the moment they cross that border into the unknown, suddenly they become geniuses and masters of their chosen craft. Worse is to remain forgotten forever.

While it would be great to leave a legacy behind when I pass on, to have my writings scrutinized and heralded by the greatest minds of the ages, nothing would thrill me more than to have a great grandchild, hundreds of years from now, come across my writings in an old and forgotten family trunk (realistically, an old and out of date USB thumb-drive), like a sunken treasure chest, and be enchanted by each page, each word, like they were the rarest gems on earth. For them to sit and study and consider and scrutinize each story and poem in an effort to try and gain some insight or deep understanding as to the man I was; to genuinely appreciate and value my writings as family heirlooms. To gaze in wonder and wish they had gotten the chance to meet me; a chance to get to know me. To say, “Wow, my great great great grandpa wrote this.” To inspire them to chase their own dreams.

That is my secret desire.



Dead Poet

Poetry is a measure of a man’s heart; a glimpse into his soul
Words congeal into hidden desires and unspoken truths
Capturing the essence of his being as he journeys through life
Each year passing liken to footsteps he treads upon the earth.

Many leave nigh a trace of their passing; memories lost forever
Some inspire and make hearts flutter and coo
But they too shall have their existence washed away
By the inescapable tides of time.

A rare few transcend the echoes of the ages
Their words fermenting in the annals of public record
The legacy of their imprint well defined and everlasting
The secret desire of all poets once they cross that threshold of no return.



Michael A. Walker
Defying Procrastination 



What are your secret desires?


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