An odd breed of man is the poet,
A world apart, as men know it,
Rapt monologue,
Scant dialogue,
Alone in a crowd, and oft show it.

Head at a tilt with ears cocked,
As he listens and seldom hears naught,
Straining with passion,
His theme to fashion,
Joy when he captures his thought.

Though all men walk the same street,
How different their music and beat,
What does a poet hear strange,
Not within other men's range?
Or what visions do poet's eyes greet?

Well, whatever he hears or he sees,
Or whatever his words come to be,
Of what consequence,
Is his eloquence?
None - all men have the same destiny.

So, what is his purpose or aim,
If not to claim heavenly gain?
Perhaps ease a path,
For someone, unasked?
Ah then, God will know his name.

Virginia (Ginny) Ellis
copyright 2000


On flights of fancy, oft she goes,
Into her land of dreams,
She goes alone and is condoned,
Her way of being free.

The sights she sees, the sounds she hears,
At their source she cannot share,
It's only later - afterwards,
Dare she admit that she was there.

Ecstasy's pain cannot remain,
Else she will surely die,
Her heart may explode, so great her load,
She may fly away in the sky.

How will she reveal a feeling too real,
An emotion too deep for belief,
Her only release, her last chance for peace,
Are paper and pen relief.

Rich desserts come from milady's hurts,
With greed we fill our plates,
She does not know we're tempted so,
We're trapped; we can't escape.

Her days, her nights, her depths, her heights,
Ah yes, we do partake,
Write on, Sweet Sister of the Soul,
You've been seduced by fate.

Virginia (Ginny) Ellis.
copyright 2000

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