I'm honor bound to speak my truth
upon these rhyming pages
And one truth is how much surprise
I feel at other's gauges
My head is clear, what I do here
is really very good
But there's a part that question's how
and I know that it should
I feel the driving urge to write
to carve out separate time
My pen and paper's close to hand
whenever thoughts are prime
I always find a starting place
but rarely know the route
And when the last word's written in
often rules that I flout
I rarely know the ending point
at least until I get there
The words fall out organically
with little need to pare
I have no formal education
in my chosen art
And still high praise flows out to me
and floats my grateful heart
I try to understand the awe
that other people feel
When they talk about the work
that falls under my seal
The closest I can correlate
is how I feel myself
When I can watch an artist work
who's product is top shelf
I have watched friend painters paint
and shake my head in awe
I've watched sculptors lay on clay
astounded when I saw
That from those strokes and globs of dirt
come realistic form
I suspect I understand when
what to me's the norm
Because I'm finally in my groove
the ease with which I write
Almost the same as paint and clay
for me would be a fight
The ease for me that writing be
must hide the work before
Years of reading, laying up
and filling up the store
I think if I expect the praise
instead of hope for it
Arrogance will dam the flow and
then it's time to quit
But have no fear of that my friends
I can not see me there
I feel surprise that other souls
connect when my soul's bare
Richard Higley © July 2011
