It used to be through poetry
The bard in skilled simplicity
Was our lone source of outside news;
We marvelled his intensity
Ne’er doubted his integrity—
His information shaped our views.
Around the fireplace young and old
Entranced by tales of triumph told
Or moved by sentimental tears;
How I miss winter nights so cold
When stories told where candles glowed
Would chill my heart and feed my fears
The dancing flame, the smell of smoke
The hushed attention as he spoke,
Spellbound by his exotic lore;
Within my heart a spark awoke,
An ember lit that time would stoke
And carry me to far-off shores.
I left the glowing hearth behind
Its tales within my heart enshrined,
For happy poet-painted lands;
It didn’t take me long to find
That fables of the poet’s mind,
Romanticized all life’s demands.
I liked the painted picture more
Than what the real world held in store—
The surest way to conquer drear;
So like the bard of youthful yore
Poetic licence lines my lore;
Perhaps I’ll draw a laugh or tear.
I sift and sieve incoming news
To formulate outgoing views,
Attempting to be relevant;
Sometimes the subjects that I choose
Win me some friends, sometimes I lose—
All accolades are transient.
To have a view and set it free
Has dangers, of necessity—
There’s nought to gain without some pain;
A commentator I might be,
No expert on society—
A payed up member just the same.
My heart’s with bards of bygone days,
Their pride of place, the simpler ways
When words were held in high regard,
Far from today’s mad stressful craze,
In mind I hear above the blaze
The news as told us by the bard.
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