An Army of Poets Marched


that’s what all of this was.

We were gods

brandishing the forces of nature

to make our own religions

of ink and parchment,

our own heavens

constructed of all the

crumbled notebook paper

to ever have become novels,

all the hells littered with those

that became dead ideas.

But to some we were

worthless, petty creatures –


when in fact our scribbles

were their lives and

we created all of it

from the story stuff of the universe

we plucked out and worked with,

an artist of the highest order,

the wielder of the written word.

Now, behold – our own creations,

living and gasping and walking

around in the world we breathed for them,

looking up at us with disdain,

only to say that we, the poets,

the soldiers,

never marched.


15 thoughts on “An Army of Poets Marched

  1. “…all the hells littered with those
    that became dead ideas.”

    LOL. This is really powerful, Natalie. What is real and who is the creator? And how do we view that which threatens us in some way? Really profound.

    1. Marya, your thoughts are invaluable to me. Everything is real and we’re all creators. We are the artists and we are the canvas – and this has the potential to save or destroy us. I don’t know who I am, but I know I write stories and my life is just a novel written by another hand, a hand we either trust or distrust 😉 But no one said that characters in a story don’t have control over their own fates. I accept myself as a creator and a creation.

      Geez, I think I just wrote another poem….

      1. Geez, I think you just did.

        A facebook friend posted these words by Alice Walker — they seem apropos:

        “In These Dissenting Times

        To acknowledge our ancestors means
        we are aware that we did not make
        ourselves, that the line stretches
        all the way back, perhaps to God; or
        to Gods. We remember them because it
        is an easy thing to forget: that we
        are not the first to suffer, rebel,
        fight, love and die. The grace with
        which we embrace life, in spite of
        the pain, the sorrows, is always a
        measure of what has gone before.”

        Sorta along the line of oneness, at least with the past, but also with the present.

        1. Writing poetry is lovely and yet somehow intrusive on the common tongue… I’m afraid everything I say is a bit lyrical and people look at me strangely because of it 😉 Oh, well!

Thoughts? I love those.

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