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A Rock Called Poetry

It was in the year 2000 that I had a dream that would forever alter the course of my path in life. While napping mid-day between classes at Point Loma Nazarene University I had an intense & prophetic dream of the Literati, in this dream I am startled from my dreary efforts to fit into the world around me by an old wise woman holding a pen, she asks me if I want to be a poet of a mere man, pointing to the top of the mountain at a large granite rock. As I look she disappears & I am now standing with a young version of Walt Whitman who leads me away from the long line of society people, up on a winding path to the top of the mountain where I discover all the great writers of the past hovering in a mid air trance around a giant turquoise spiraling flame. I could hear their words as though they were MY thoughts, I I could hear my words as though they were THEIR thoughts. It was a telepathic hovering holographic experience where all voices that ever were became ONE VOICE echoing off the beat of my heart. After sometime I was told this could be my destiny to dwell among the greats if I wished & only if I would dedicate my life to poetry, to being Literati, to living a life worth writing about! When I awoke from this dream I immediately wrote out the poem which follows, it came out in rhyme effortlessly & felt as if guided by the hand of the unseen. For anyone else watching who has ever felt the call of the genius of the greats stirring within you.... this one is for you. A Rock Called Poetry I was going down the way of man, When I was accosted by a withered old hand, and from behind it peered a weathered old face... whose kind-bright-eyes drew me away... She said, my son... The Literati are dead, And in their place no one stands... go therefore and carve your name... upon that same great rock from which they came. And then she smiled with a sense of knowing, came in close and whispered this song... She said, Dead and dying poets will speak to you with their dead and undying words... and the secrets they speak will make your heart stir... but as long as you live, be true to their call... write with your blood, your tears, your all. And I think I saw a gleam in her eye, as she looked into my soul and began to smile. And in one heaving motion, she turned and then stopped. And without looking pointed to a rock. It was far behind me, I'd never seen it before. When I looked to her again she was there no more. All that was left was a token of her voice, telling me to go-ahead and make my choice. And as her cadence faded, I swear I could hear her say... A man or a poet be but don't take all day! With that I dropped my load, and took up my pen and headed for that rock to find my friends. The road once smooth, seemed rougher than I remembered it, and at length I found my self wanting to quit... then just as the way came almost to an end, I thought I had lighted upon the voice of a friend. I lifted my head saw him standing before me, he smiled with his eyes as he leaned upon a tree. He said, We've been expecting you, what took so long? Did you not see the old woman and hear her song? I assured him yes I did indeed, and he stretched out his hand, and with his pen he led me...to another land. There I saw Whitman, and even Thoreau, sitting with Twain, Emerson, and Poe... They asked me to join in add to their circle to bring my pen, and be open to their miracles. The secrets of life they would share with me and the words to make a new kind of poetry. I left the side of him that led me there, and sat with my friends upon that rock so bare... For the first time in my life, I felt I belonged as we sat by the turquoise spiraling fire light and wrote out our songs. There passed what seemed many moments of silence, we conversed just the same without speech, but in writing. They told me of poetry and words long forgot, and of the times they'd journeyed to this same old rock. As I looked around this circle of writers so great, I prophesied that one day, this too would be my fate... to write and live a lifetime committed to words, and give my self over to poetry inscribe the obscure. Then they informed me that I must be on my way The living of course were not permitted to stay and as I went their voices with me came convincing me that to write, and to live, were one and the same... Beauty contained in the soul, comes out of a pen... we write our-selves into history as books with no end. And as I left the company of my literary friends, I knew that instinctively, we would meet here again. To this very day, when I'm at a loss for words... I go to that place where truths are heard. I climb up that path stop at that tree, and look for a rock, that is called poetry.