Not given this gift of wordcraft 
to speak of love, inner peace, gratitude…
I wear this poet’s coarse cloak 
as a humble servant of truth. 
Those who wield wealth and weapons
know the threat of it,
that poetry cannot manifest in deceit.
Their lies hold no contest to a poem.

They can fire journalists,
buy out newspapers,
bankrupt publishers,
burn manuscripts,
silence radio stations,
cancel TV programming,
and clog the internet with bullshit.

But they can never erase a poem.Sticky stuff of cadence and rhyme,
repeated by humankind since vowels and consonants
first combined as stories passed from
fires to phones, stubbornly persist.
No amount of damage control
will scrub the poet’s words,
once heard.

Before chiseled stone,
printing press,

truth prevailed
in the words of a poem.

And there you have it,
why I write poetry.