*The Poet
Words of beauty grace the page
and images spring to bloom
Tenderness, heartbreak, rage –
sunshine bright or shadows darkly loom.
Such is the world of the Wordsmith;
of the poet’s heart, within.
The scent of apple blossoms with
the brisk zephyr for it’s kin.
The poet reaches to impart
the fitting metaphor
to open up the heart
as one might open up a door.
His bag of tricks, near magical,
his words ring clear and fine
to sing the world a madrigal
with the taste of summer wine.
Later in the evening
even the poet takes his pause
and an aging hand picks up the pen
to further shape his cause.
The body wearies with the years
but the mind stays young, and bold.
For all his laughter and his tears
the poet’s heart does not grow old.
Night has come upon him
as he closes tired eyes
sleep takes him to the rim
of sweet dreams and brighter skies.
Lin Cava©*
Oct 25, 2010
Oct 25, 2010 at 4:26 PM UTC
*The Poet
Words of beauty grace the page
and images spring to bloom
Tenderness, heartbreak, rage –
sunshine bright or shadows darkly loom.
Such is the world of the Wordsmith;
of the poet’s heart, within.
The scent of apple blossoms with
the brisk zephyr for it’s kin.
The poet reaches to impart
the fitting metaphor
to open up the heart
as one might open up a door.
His bag of tricks, near magical,
his words ring clear and fine
to sing the world a madrigal
with the taste of summer wine.
Later in the evening
even the poet takes his pause
and an aging hand picks up the pen
to further shape his cause.
The body wearies with the years
but the mind stays young, and bold.
For all his laughter and his tears
the poet’s heart does not grow old.
Night has come upon him
as he closes tired eyes
sleep takes him to the rim
of sweet dreams and brighter skies.
Lin Cava©*
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