Wise Old Sage
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Weakly- that is, Weekly Poem
posted Wednesday, 6 April 2005
I came to realize that in all my vapid posts,
Nearly every seven days, eight or nine at the most,
That poetry would bloom and take root upon my mind,
Germinate for just a bit then on the screen I'd find,
I'd written verse for all to see and judge for themselves,
The sanity of one who writes of fairies, of elves,
Of little thoughts of not much substance, passing fancies,
Nothing more than casual weight his harmless fantasies.
Nearly every seven days, eight or nine at the most,
That poetry would bloom and take root upon my mind,
Germinate for just a bit then on the screen I'd find,
I'd written verse for all to see and judge for themselves,
The sanity of one who writes of fairies, of elves,
Of little thoughts of not much substance, passing fancies,
Nothing more than casual weight his harmless fantasies.
"What, pray tell, their thoughts of me," I wonder to myself,
As I lay my inside bare, my heart upon a shelf,
"Do they think me flippant and not worth the breath to speak?"
"Do I give them joy or pain or anything they seek?"
I know not how to answer these queries in my mind,
And so I keep a'writing and hope some day to find,
A simple truth, explaining from whence the poems come,
Until that day, once a week, a poem will be done.
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