A Poem on Poetry

In this very moment,
right here and now,
I think about my thoughts
and wonder what, why and how.

I jot down the random musings
as and when they come,
and wonder in amazement
as beautiful poems, they become.

At the first glance, I wonder
who gives me this thought?
Whom to thank for this gift
that could neither be bought nor taught.

But on a closer introspection
which I sometimes do,
something within me stirred
as I heard Him say, "I do".

Now the clouds of doubt cleared, 
and the sunshine of clarity bathed me through.
The bird of my thought was now uncaged
as in unbridled glory my thoughts flew.

In an infant's innate bliss,
in our self imposed stress,
in a toddler learning to talk,
in an old man's trudging walk,
in the beauty of a nymph,
in the ecstasy of a triumph,
in a beggar's expectant eyes,
in man's perennial avarice,
in the silence of the tomb,
in the unborn's kick through the womb
and mother's painful pleasure,
in love, the joy beyond measure,
in the growth of a tree
and in life's mysterious travel,
there is always some poetry
waiting for us to unravel.

If the thought doesn't come to you
like bliss to an infant,
like flight to a bird,
like swim to a fish,
like leaves grow on trees,
it would rather not come.

If you don't value things that don't matter.
If you can't see beyond
the physical scope of a human eye,
poetry is something, 
you'd rather not try.