Kevin Michael Bloor

a sort of poet

I call myself a sort of poet.
My readers say I sometimes show it
when I\'m writing with my wizard’s wand.
(With muse, you see, I’ve a sort of bond!)

Of course, I’m only breath and vapor,
a timid tiger, frail as paper.
Born bitter, broken, barely breathing,
a shallow shell by seashore seething.

Like comic clown, I\'m entertaining.
On the outside, you’ll find me feigning
love and laughter, joy and gladness;
(but sorrow shrouds my soul with sadness!)

I wrestle, daily, with my weakness,
I bolster up for future bleakness.
I stand aloof like stony statue,
rock-hard as steel or stone or bamboo.

I style myself a roguish rhymer.
I’m 65, a real old-timer.
I should be cruising, not composing.
This poet’s life is just plain posing!