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!
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Author:
Blue-eyed Bolla (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: June 1st, 2022 01:35
- Comment from author about the poem: dedicated to all the true poets on this site. This 'sort of poet' salutes you all!
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 19
Offline)
Comments4
Cruisin along when not composin and vice versa. Living life is poetry in itself. To share it in verse keeps the mind from turning on itself, at least that is my theory. Thanks for sharing.
Many thanks for stopping by. I think I agree with your take on cruisin' and composin'.
I sort of like this. Well, I more than sort of like it! lol.
Sort of thanks. 😂
I love how your poems have this rhythmic flow to them! A great poet indeed!
Many thanks, Judy. Less of the great. Let's save this for the truly great. 😁. Thank you for your support. 😉
Good words Kevin, we are all sort of poets.
Andy
Thanks, Andy.
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