A Poet's Quill

A horde of words with easy grace

Sit blithely on the tongue of man

Whose earnest mind and pliant face

Can shape as only poets' can.

 

A stream of words shall trickle by

In meter and a rhyme or two,

With a silent welcome and goodbye,

And bring catharsis, overdue.

 

Beseech ye all a gallant sight?

Then hark! For here's a poet's quill

That bleeds his soul with every write,

Till all his thoughts stand quietly, still.

 

But waters still run fiercely deep,

And so do every poet's thoughts;

For every word that quietly seeps,

An ocean waits to yet be brought.

 

Belittle not the poet's art,

For what is life but poetry?

For every word that bleeds his heart,

Our life receives a memory. 

 

Reviews

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

Hmmm ... I love this, particularly the following lines:

"Then hark! For here's a poet's quill
That bleeds his soul with every write,
Till all his thoughts stand quietly, still."

"But waters still run fiercely deep,
And so do every poet's thoughts;
For every word that quietly seeps,
An ocean waits to yet be brought. "

"For every word that bleeds his heart,
Our life receives a memory."

Your poem is a lovely tribute to all the writers whose waters run deeper than deep, whose writing never tends to end, and whose words resonate within the hearts of fellow writers.

Linda Marie