Intimate Circles Poem by Roy Blokker

Courtly men had time
To explore the world of learning
While peasants worked the land
And soldiers patrolled the borders
With wary eyes and ready swords.
Henry Tutor wrote sonnets and songs
To entertain his own court
And each of his six wives.
The songs survive, curiosities
Composed by a famous king.

But in the trenches of World War One,
While waiting for orders, Over The Top!
Soldiers with no education punched
Small dots into patterns
On canteens, spent shells, whatever
They could find to kill the time
And describe the hell around them
Or the heaven left behind.
Art thrived in wet embankments
With scenes of children playing
On a lunch tin decorated at Verdun.

Bob Cochrane overran a sixty yard pass
But reached up and hauled it in
His body slipping backward as he crossed
Into the end zone, hero
In a high school game
While we cheered wildly at the win,
At his moment of perfection rescued
Like a Jordan jump shot with two ticks
Left on the clock.

Art is everywhere, in each of us,
But opportunity comes to few.
There are poems, novels, paintings
And songs waiting to be born
But sometimes the best of us
Does not share with the world,
Just with a lucky select few
Whom the artist loves,
A rainbow pot of gold hoarded
And culled from the mind then laid before
A gentle audience,
And it will do.