“To the Forgotten Poet”
But perhaps— you are not forgotten. Not truly.
Your voice threads the dusk between radio static,
slips between keystrokes, hums in the silence
after a song we don’t know why we love.
Yes, the world dances now with more urgent partners:
with technology, utility, and news cycles that do not mourn or remember.
But still— in quiet corners your longing sprouts
like wild violets in a parking lot crack.
We who read beneath fluorescents
still look out windows because of you.
We who cry without knowing what for,
do so in your dialect.
You were not meant to be the celebration.
You were the echo afterward— the part that stays.
The garlands might wilt. But the roots are
underground and unsupervised. And still growing.
.
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Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: July 7th, 2025 02:18
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 30
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Cheeky Missy, Tristan Robert Lange, Damaso
Offline)
Comments10
A interesting and nicely expressed writing .. good poem
I like the words in this
Thanks, Caring dove, much appreciated.🕊️🙏🏻
A poem with a very nice metaphor (We who read beneath fluorescents still look out windows because of you.) also the whole last stanza works so well. The idea of being an echo or an underground root unseen yet growing. How many times have I seen ripple effects from written words sometimes noticeable and at others not. Very nicely written and a fave
Thanks Soren, there is that genetic marking of poetry, literature and art that are like cuttings of certain plantlife that will root and grow, graft and multiply even in its minutest segments.
Thanks @Soren for the Fave.
1/3 is minuscule in comparison. That's the way things are these days...
This is a hope filled poem.Perhaps the poet is not forgotten but has metamorphised into being a musician or lyricist. The basic roots of poetry are still there and growing.An excellent discussion. Enjoyed reading
I do believe all of these different types and varieties of artists are poets in their core selves. Some of us use our words and that is our medium; and those mutlimedial are quite the envy of monomedial artists. Although I am inclined to believe that all artists are in the very least bimedial. Thanks compadre🕊️🙏🏻
By our words we are justified, and by our words we are condemned.
Doesn't really matter if anyone else is listening.
And that is the full stop of word usage - no listener required. 🕊️🙏🏻
Any artist in any field would relate to this, as the mind is always ticking over, little seeds are down, some taking years to grow, enjoyed the read
Thank you PL/TN that is so true🕊️🙏🏻
You are very welcome
Oh, my dear poet and friend…this felt like it was speaking through me, not just to me. 😔 That violet-in-the-crack line? Wow! That’s the truth of it. The echo that stays, the dialect of quiet grief—we know it well...or at least I do. Deeply moving work. Still sitting with this. 🌹👏 A must fave for me.
As am I... that violet through the asphalt still stays in my memory, as a child being tugged about on grocery day. 🕊️🙏🏻
Amen! Powerful memory indeed!
Fantatsic
Thank you
Nice one. Poets voices still echo down the years and as long as there's Books , Internet etc they'll always be with us .
And they are echoes worth our ears. Thanks Kevin 🕊️🙏🏻
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