First Person

When writing,
Would it be better, so as not to assume
You think the same,
That I should begin this in first person.
I am
Is first person
I am plucking the fruit from the tree of knowledge-
First one then the other,
Tasting each to see if it will suit.
This word to harsh,
This too fair,
This sweet and yielding,
This hard as stone.
The stone in which I could carve your name-
Letters chiseled into timeless granite.
Even stone wears to dust eventually.
Not so words-
Or at least that is what
They think-
We think-
I think.
Or why else would they-
Spend so much precious time
Searching for that one ripe plum.

For Poets

The quiet scritch of nub to page
Willing words to flow from pen
To enlighten minds or to engage
The subtle heart to open
Wages poor but riches deep
All these words we must not keep
But fling skyward in hurried flight
To give these feelings power and light

We write not what we want but need
Each kernel of soul, an egg, a seed
Watered in tears in anxious hours
Kind words encourage each to flower

Heed not the pain of doubt and fear
The willing hand gives help when near
And open hearts reveal for each to see
these lowly words become inspired poetry