I write about the things I know
Sometimes it’s places that I’ve been
Or, maybe places I would go
If I’d find time to now and then.
But mostly I write what I see.
A description lives inside of me
That forms a picture, but in words,
To reproduce in simple verse.
It might rhyme, if I’ve the time.
But, mostly I’m an artist poor,
With words for color, nothing more.
Poems that must have rhyme and reason,
Sometimes, just don’t fit the season.
Poets must be given freedom
To express feelings without borders.
We’re not soldiers given marching orders.
So I write of nature and man,
And try to rhyme it when I can.
But sometimes trees and birds and clouds
Will send me to a place I go,
Deep within my mind.
And there, with pen and paper,
I’ll see what I can find.
Like ships and trains and oil rigs,
I scribe around the clock,,, tic toc….
Like books and babes and butterflies,
Just because,,,that’s why,,that’s what…