Calling Out To You Poem by Peter S. Quinn

(“I shall write my sonnets
from the real world
just like my poems”) .

They are not me,
They are them self's;
Calling out to you,
Asking you,
Write us down
Who ever you are,
We are many here
Still unwritten.

With sounds of nature,
Where it started all from;
With sounds from the streets,
That's now our future.
Oh come oh come,
You born and unborn;
Write us down,
We are here
For all you senses.

The creatures
Of puzzling words,
That the wind created;
In the beginning,
When the trees
Grew up from its roots.

We are here,
For all you senses;
Come write us down,
Let the words speak of colors
With shades.
All unborn,
Speaking tongues of senses;
With scenarios from each mind,
That feels the urge
To write us someday
Down.

Every hour is a flower less song,
If it has no singing of words.