The poet’s prize is not fame
A trophy or great wealth
Nor captured if he wins the game
With words he puts upon his shelf
Collecting dust in vain …
The poet’s prize he can not steal
From his daily dealings
Nor hide it if he does reveal
His deepest inner feelings
Opened as if peeled …
The poet’s prize may never come
With tales of love and life
He may never beat a sounding drum
Of his deepest thought-filled night
It may all just be “ho-hum” …
And the poet’s prize will not reveal
To many who may read
What hides within his head of steel
Of the times it cuts and bleeds
Until he may succeed …
The poet’s prize is in each word
He puts down on the paper
Like another log within a cord
With inner truth the caper.
As a young man, Philip A. Zentz worked summers on Martha’s Vineyard, commercial fishing out of Menemsha and building stone walls. A retired carpenter, cabinetmaker, and schoolteacher, he now lives in East Bridgewater, but often visits relatives here.
