A Poem

A calculated vagueness
of truth and conjuring,
the sounds  a sense of song,
a satisfaction  beyond the words,
beyond the race to get the world right.

In the pen’s perfection
Earth concedes to Space;
the tethered soul takes flight.
everything and nothing is concrete,
a constant morph  between form and spirit;

The activity of fact and dream
and the circumstance  of imagination.
When all is done,  the smallest wren
becomes a 747;  a mountain
becomes a molehill.


  1. Hi Sarah

    Just a wonderful poem about the process of becoming a poem and the need to define experience that matters and matters in our life. I love how” the wren becomes a 747″ and “a mountain becomes a mole hill”. You have written something here I can really relate to as a poet and writer. These lines are right on target and so true!!

    Everything and nothing is concrete,
    a constant morph between form and spirit;

    Thank you for sharing this one,
    so much enjoyed!

    Liked by 2 people

  2. Wendy,

    My thanks to you.Your perception is keen. I find that when I relinquish myself to
    the spirit of the poem (which I do in the beginning) I end up with a very flawed poem,
    so then I address the mechanics of it, and usually go too far. Every now and then I
    find the right blend between form and spirit and I walk away happy. I love that you
    highlighted that line, because that is where the poem began. It was the first line and
    ended up as the last because I felt it must be ‘arrived at’.



  3. Sarah,

    You know I agree with this. You’ve captured it quite well. My favorite bell ringer: “[e]verything is concrete and nothing is.” A definite bon mot. 🙂


    Liked by 1 person

  4. Mark,

    Whether consciously or not, you have shown me a better arrangement for the ‘concrete’ line.
    I am off to do an edit now…pausing only to say thank you for your comment. It is much appreciated.

    Thank you!!



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