The Poet

by Peter Notehelfer
Hans Hofmann

Hans Hofmann

He is the idiot

Who stares at light

Hoping to see an angel

Dance in the ether

Of imagination 


He the wastrel

Who by the hour

Fumbles scrabbled letters

So as to describe

The sunflower


He the scavenger

Who studies the foam

Washing in on the seashore

As though it held silver

From the Sierras


He the rounder

Who eyes all women

As Everests to be verse-won

By the rope & tackle

Of his rhymes


He the doubter

Of all things obvious

Cynic of science & of religion

Asking If bees can fly

Then why can’t I?


He is the beggar

Who kneads the dough

He will never bake or sell

All for sake of a touch

A scent of heaven

6 Comments to “The Poet”

  1. o me miserum, we are such pitiable creatures

  2. let’s hear it for those idiots, they keep the plates spinning don’t they?

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