Something Beautiful

There’s a girl, a poet, pen in hand Sitting beneath a maple tree Trying to find something beautiful To let her words run free She spends the hours pondering While her mind is busy wandering And each word lingers an hour or two Then scratched right off the page A book of partial prose, unfinished For this young beautiful sage There’s a gentleman of forty-something For years he played guitar Trying to find something beautiful “I thought it would take me far” The chords he was composing Were a closure never closing And by the time his whisky drowned His passions swam away A heart’s crescendo in the past With beautiful unborn tunes And in a world of labels, plastic Sucking on the media’s breast – here we are Trying to find something beautiful Apart from all the rest It’s morphine for the minds that wonder Into literary words of prose And never find the beautiful something Where the spirit of Keats’ mastery flows It’s Novocain for hearts that compose The melodic chords hidden within Yet fail to find that beautiful something That Lennon’s ghost could also sing For the many, it rests Beneath the tomb stone reading: Here lies the hearts and minds of those whose fire Burnt out years before they Found something beautiful