Poetry Poem by John Dowdall

Not only is the one sight seen
from any perspective or
in a dream or near sleep,
at start of day, or coffee-time
falling evening or fiery dusk, or
anytime a mind may be.

No fruit borne by an attempt
to convey all of the known
sights, sensations, sounds
and sentiments, not fit for purpose
a synthesis of many things
which can only cogently be sensed
in the moment.

Poets through the ages
on earth and everywhere
have left us the remnants of
the moment, a London
street in 1910, or a battle
scene imaged in 1510.
We live there then in them
to happily return again.

Good, if all poems are logged
by a mythical light-form scribe
in Jannah, or at their source
by a delicate -but fierce- angel
who was overlooked for the
mission at Sodom. Too occupied
by His true calling. Each firefly is
deftly captured.