I’m Not A Poet
I’m not a poet — it’s so much worse.
I see the whole wide world in verse.
No. I don’t mean it’s upside-down
or left is right, and so around.
I think God made this world, and time,
with a sense of meter and of rhyme.
Wherever I look, I plainly see
the handwork of God — His poetry.
I’m not a poet. I can’t find words
to set hearts singing like mockingbirds.
It seems when I try to bare my heart
my words don’t picture what I want to impart.
Things of great beauty clearly seen in this world,
like a mother and baby or a boy with his girl,
never show clearly in words used by me.
Though they usually rhyme, they’re not poetry.
I’m not a poet. As hard as I try,
my words don’t warm like a lullaby.
That elusive essence true poets possess
is just that, elusive, and I can guess
will continue to escape me ‘til the end of time
unless God breathes spirit in my simple rhymes,
causing them to blossom and some soul to bless
with courage and conviction or … just quietness.
I’m not a poet. I’m a rhymer, at best.
Someday, when I stand my final test,
I’ll stand before One at the great white throne
to account for the deeds that I have done.
Each thought I’ve had will be brought to light,
each word I’ve said, be it wrong or right.
I’ll confess to the One who will judge me then,
“I never was a poet. Wish I could have been.”