An old fading poet
Woke one morning
Not realizing his days
Were but numbers on the calendar.
His memory
He felt was seeping
Through the crevasses of sanity
As he stepped from within himself
Curiously glaring at his
Eroding id.
What was it he wanted to write?
Which words
Could he unscramble
Into readable lines?
How many lines
can he squeeze into a verse?
Do his words need to rhyme?
Is it a rhythm
That accopanies his plume?
As he scratches
On already written parchment.
He places the tip
Of his plume, to his lips
Trying to think
Of what he could scribe
Attempting to force words
To appear
From a blank slate
Within his fading mind.
Muse no longer
Reach out to his senses
Just An Old Poet
With no realization
Of his days
Being but numbers, on the calendar
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Reindeer
love and peace, Carole
peace and blessings, budding poet!
carolyn
Regis
Love Tinka
Love,
Eileen
This leads one to work mind and soma in order to prevent senility.
The muses love to play at the garden of "An Old Poet" to feel the scent of wisdom.
Long healthy life, Poet.
Andre Emmanuel Bendavi ben-YEHU
Sandie May Angel a.k.a. Sandie Angel :o)
Susan
Good one.
but just think, A poet can make a poem of anything
and I just think I read ONE!!
pax A