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Poem


poet, you called me?
          oh no - that’s not I ...
               there's truly just ONE
     he writes ‘pon the sky

of sunsets and stars
          of space without end
               with bold dazzling ink
     from a masterful pen

rhymes of dust devils
          cloud anvils and rains
               mists from the moors
     or wind-tickled plains

meadows a-blooming
          or snow-crusted peaks
               odes made for sunrise
     with blush on its cheek

a green flash, auroras
          the comets and moon
               intense constellations
     that rollick and swoon

bright, stabbing bolts
          to pierce a night’s sky
               huge, spiraling storms
     with a sun in their eye

the sonnets He writes
          are authentic and true
               surpassing the greatest
     my words can construe

and yet every-so-often
          He’ll bless this old fool
               to impart me the grace
     and make me … His tool

so, I'd love to take credit
          but I must keep in sight
               that I'm just an aged pen
     with which He may write

thus, I might seem poetic
          for the tales that I've spun
               but regarding TRUE poets
     there's really ... just ...

ONE.







Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, May 6, 2024 (rewrite)

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