A Younger Poet 5-1-12

I dab some ink on end of quill,

and draft a poem right until,

my paper stack is all used up

and empty is my coffee cup.

My hand that shakes all on its own,

is held in place by fragile bone

so every verb and every noun

is marred when they are written down.

It seems to me to be so cruel,

for such a weak and senile fool,

with varicose and bulging veins

with all my many aches and pains,

to write more words until they're right

this poetry - despite my sight,

that grows so weak so often now.

I wonder if I still know how...

Yet may my writing not disguise

that God is good and God is wise -

for God has blessed and has in store

His endless grace and all the more.

We often think we know it all

and brag before our humble fall -

yet may we learn this simple truth:

that ink can change a prideful youth.

So I will write 'til truth is taught

and everlasting grace is sought.

Before I die, for what it's worth,

I'll pray for one more poets birth -

to carry on, to take my place,

to teach more youth of every race.

So dab I ink, on end of quill,

until a younger poet will...

©2012 louis gander - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

http://www.ganderpoems.org/

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