In pen I plough my lonesome furrow
Synapses alive and the brain set alight
Willing an audience to interpret correctly
‘The meaning’, tis always The Poet’s hard plight.
Often the words that are written on paper
Take on a new life with the nuance of speech
If only the reader could hear it as I do
But then there’d be little left for me to teach.
Oh for a lovely warm Spring morning I say
What is invoked in the spirit that’s you
I hear the converse of snowdrop and crocus
And try then to pass on the messages too.
Some are times when the words just won’t form
I can’t find the flow to fit with my thoughts
Still though the writing finds ways to the paper
Landing as ink in shapes of all sorts.
Thus I continue to put my pen to paper
Scribbling new odes for the reader to see
And all the words that I lay there before you
Are just a reflection of all that is me.
©Joe Wilson – All that is me…2015