the reticent bard sits,
strung on a fence.
his fear of leaping
one side or t'other
has given him a sore ***
he's sat there for years.
his songs, sung to the birds
of the field, fly softly through
the air.
and not a one hears him
and not a one cares,
the reticent bard reflects
his contemplation lost
to an audience unhearing
the birds of the field,
hearing his sighs,
wing their flight
to places unknown.
our dear bard,
in solitude laments
his yearning
the reticent bard has forgotten
the majestic ministration of words.
that mysterious music
which sings into the air,
and returns magic,
far and near.
--bruised orange
Oct 6, 2011
Oct 6, 2011 at 9:06 PM UTC
the reticent bard sits,
strung on a fence.
his fear of leaping
one side or t'other
has given him a sore ***
he's sat there for years.
his songs, sung to the birds
of the field, fly softly through
the air.
and not a one hears him
and not a one cares,
the reticent bard reflects
his contemplation lost
to an audience unhearing
the birds of the field,
hearing his sighs,
wing their flight
to places unknown.
our dear bard,
in solitude laments
his yearning
the reticent bard has forgotten
the majestic ministration of words.
that mysterious music
which sings into the air,
and returns magic,
far and near.
--bruised orange
a gift for a poet friend, who was feeling blue.
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