Poetry

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This Scribe

I rise with dawn, a tuckered soul,
A smiling sun bids me good day.
An eager quill awaits its goal,
Enlightened thoughts to parchment lay.

The praise of men I beckon not,
My inner man longs to be loosed.
Penned words of heart, my destined lot
Fantasy and fact must be roused.

Ink and pen, these two, I know well,
We have weathered many a gale.
Valleys and mountains bound to tell,
Of my pages, tattered and frail.

Fame and fortune’s alluring scent,
have attracted more than one nib.
The prize; to see their names in print
Gold--like to Eve, was Adam’s rib.

Like a brook lacking its babble
Imagine water, dry, not wet,
Or, the Rouser, with no rabble,
each day's sunrise, dearth of sunset.

I seek not, the applause of men
this scribbling satisfies my soul.
My sword, my comrade, yes, the pen,
Lest this scribe write--he won’t be whole.

My mask 2010.

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