Dreams, Contrasts and Realities

Earth below, sky above,
In the middle was the poet,
On a hill he stood,
Hands outstretched,
Within a sultry expectant summer balm,
A conductor with literal baton unfurled.

Fields of golden words surround the hill,
Waiting to be claimed,
To fulfil the poet's needs,
And fill the sky from horizon to horizon,
To speak of dreams, contrasts and realities.

Tap, Tap, a shaft of sunlight announces the title,
An ink stained hand poised with mighty pen.

Words fly searing the dust mots,
Of the lazy summer afternoon.

The overture concluded,
The symphony begins,
A dance of whirling waltzes,
Words flying together and apart,
Sentences forming and dissolving,
Punctuation pulls together,
Structure ebbs and flows.

Strong emotions fill the poem,
To play the harp strings of the heart.

Images so creative and colourful,
Sear memories across the retina of life,

A heightened sense of awareness,
And a vast immense significance.

Out of chaos,
Comes a newborn screaming poem,
Bursting with ripe emotional fireworks,
Illuminating and touching ever soul.

But the golden fields are barely diminished,
Words to make more poems,
For there are always,
More dreams,
More contrasts,
And more realities.