Poeta
When tender sleep had taken me
To far away, the place of dreams
The slender Muses came to me
And pulled my mind away from home
On grassy mountains put me down
With rocks and boulders as my seat
The place where poetry is born
Where Muses gives their verse to us
Though words of lies they know as well
On there they spoke the words of truth:
“Oh, Poet, Writer, Author, you
Who puts down words on paper, that
Had only just existed there
Within your mind and in your heart
A journey here will start for you
A story, new, to now complete
Without begin, without an end
Just tales as beads are on a string
The song of birds and rustling leaves
Will guide when you are writing songs
But well-worn paths should not be feared
When writing stories readers love
A spring is pure with water clean
When minds can think of tales anew
No, small and big are neither wrong
And you are versed as well with both
Whatever story suits your needs
We always love to hear it told
Oh, Poet, Writer, Author, you
Will tell us tales of days long past
Of teenage lies and magic gifts
Of dragons, monsters, gods and ducks
Of conversations, friendly talk
Of love, and hate, and flames, and cake
So go, and give to us your tales
We wait to see what you will do”
Then I awoke from tender sleep
With pressure building in my mind
To put to paper tales with words
As Muses had instructed me
So here is it, my newest work
A work for which no one has asked
Not big, not small, but right in size
With pumice polished smooth to shine
The thoughts of me, presented here
My mind laid bare for all to see
But not yet ready, loading…
