Nibbed pen in hand, he labored on an open page.
In truth, his eyes were focused down upon the moon,
Volcanoes spewing as his capsule glided by.
An interruption shocked him back into his room.
He spied the page before him taking careful note
Before addressing matters that were near at hand.
The noontime meal was ready, calling him away
Still wondering if he and his passengers could land.
No sedentary figure, he had traveled well
And far beyond the borders of his writing desk
To scour oceans deep for all that man could need,
Or delve into strange doings in cavernous depths.
He lived upon an island quite mysterious,
For eighty days he roamed our orb by land and sea
The very center of the Earth he once explored
And on a comet he lived, accidentally.
He even sailed to Africa in his balloon.
An Arctic summer ocean he made manifest.
So many wondrous tales of traveling had he,
And all seen through the pages on his writing desk.
Copyright © Janice Thompson | Year Posted 2018
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