Remember
Remember,
when hearts become wrinkles,
as pages not wrote,
thoughts were once Shakespeare’s,
on crumpled pages of note.
Poet’s, pages unwritten,
one day is guilt smitten,
for dries up many streams,
of, accomplished poet's dreams.
I have a little critic,
for whom I write Didactic,
Didactic, for my critic.
“I do not thank they get it.”
They only whet my skill,
as different notions spill.
Love lyrics for heretics,
rhymes for their crimes.
With Tennyson, I eat venison,
quite often, out on the hill,
always, I get my quill,
never failing to get my fill.
Thoughts in time, become vapor,
not unlike, crumples of paper.
A wasted memory is a crime,
even a weak one like mine.
Your crumpled papers,
do soon become vapors,
if critics have their say,
as poetic thoughts remain in disarray.
“Record them today,
for Carol, Mi... la... day!”
Dedicated to Carol
In Honor of Contest:
Pieces of Paper…a Poet’s heart
By John Moses Freeman
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