By Don Kenton Henry


So you thought you’d seen it and heard it all, my friend

And that life ran true without ever a bend

That other’s words were sanctified and you trusted without end

To every orphan, stray, and stranger you shared your home and heart again and again


You were not a stone


But reality is that perception is often a façade

For what appeared linen walls were often made of brick

And seeing through them, like a lover’s words, was too often a trick

But you listened and you trusted and they kissed and they lied

To your face with insincere flattery and guile

Picking your heart like a pocket all the while


So you asked yourself

Why try to hide

It’s a house of mirrors in want of a God

And when once you gave, you now deny


And now, time has lined your heart with armor

And your soul is steeled by life’s lessons learned

Never giving into other’s schemes

Or even the most well-meaning of intentions

You proceed with circumspection

Sharing neither your dreams or confessions

Safe but alone

Your former self has become a distant reflection

An island with no connection to a greater, higher thing


You’ve become a stone


Suitors elevate what they cannot have

Admirers hold you on a pedestal

And your hubris runs amok

And love is always finite and nothing good perpetual

You trust nothing to luck


You are safe alone


In your mind, you’ve become famous as a sagacious judge of character

You approach romance like a business plan

Trusting nothing to fate

Your reality is manicured

Self-served on a gilded plate

Kismet and serendipity in which you once so much believed―

Which in your poet’s heart once had a home . . .

Have been evicted


You’ve become a stone


Judgmental words of critics abound but are dismissed with resignation

Their acceptance is not sought

Self-absolution rationalized by denial born of adaptation

from pride’s hammer is what’s wrought

You are pragmatic in the throes of preservation


A stone repels all rain and hail

Against the elements it doth prevail


You gird your mind with an elevated perception of self-worth

and your loins with the company of co-conspirators in mutual, consensual exploitation

Conspirators for whom you cannot care and therefore by whom you cannot be hurt

To the point your wisdom has become a curse


Oh, please do not remain a stone


Let the poet man come home

Let him find his heart again

Let him see a world with less sin

Let his resurrection now begin

Permit the poet man not die alone

Permit his poet heart seek not to roam

Forsake the persona jaded by years of infidelity of others

And his own


Oh, please poet man do not remain a stone


Call poetry and love and fate

And tell them to come home

Let them find a way down a friendly road to an open gate

Where once more the poet man trusts each

Where love owns the mortgage on a heart that lust once leased

And where that heart heeds the call of what your soul doth preach


Hearken to your poet heart o’ poet man

Come home


6 comments on “COME HOME POET MAN

  1. Love it, but makes me sad.

  2. Acknowledgment is the first step in redemption, Lisa. And some of this is poetic license.

  3. She is still where you left her years ago,
    Waiting in a field where bluebonnets grow.
    Without you her heart is as broken as her wings,
    yet she continues to believe love can heal anything.
    Feathers of red she has scattered across these blooms of blue,
    Marking a trail to guide you…
    Come home poet man.
    I will take your heart of stone.

  4. Oh my, RTH . . . that is beautiful. Thank you . . .

  5. Thank you for reading my poetry. I want to provide some insight. Do not take it too literally. Where my memoirs are virtually as accurate as a writer can make them from what is obviously a subjective perspective―like my fiction―my poetry is not. Like my fiction, my poetry reflects to some degree (and sometimes more) who I am. But, likewise, I take poetic license. While inspired by who I am, and what I have lived through, all feelings and experiences are enhanced for dramatic effect. So do not always believe I am as melancholy as I sound; as happy as I sound; as wounded or as optimistic as I sound. Don’t believe I have actually experienced all I claim in my poetry. Then again, do not assume I have not. It’s art people. Thanks again for reading.


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