the wrinkled brow, just a notice of the novice.

accompolished poets have smooth foreheads,
one's that don't curl with unexpressed thoughts,
silent emotions, but instead spread flat
from the botox injections of openness.

the gurgling of connected words in print
read, felt, smiled at, frowned on
are his or hers
and only belong to you
for that moment.

never forever are they yours.
always forever they are his, hers.

yet, the magic or the blank page
suddenly filled with print
is elusive to the unaware.

to be a magician of the wordless page,
filled with words was once you, cloaked
in self-doubt, lurking in the shadows
of jugglers and court artisans.

step forward, put words on a page
that make your forehead bleed,
make you own skin crawl with nakedness,
carry every feeling with you and
like don quixote see what's iron
and make it into gold.

08/12/2005