On Poetry: Past, Present, Future
Whatever has or shall be seen
With eyes or aching heart
Is the subject that must be told
Their meaning to impart,
And, often those penned words
Sink like a poisoned dart.
On paper the poets ink
Like blood, will congeal
And relate all the joy, the pain,
The feelings we all feel,
Sometimes unintentionally
Striking our Achilles heel.
To some it was so ordinary
To one of untrained eye
But, to the perceptive poet
The extraordinary won’t pass by
But shall be immortalised,
For written words cannot die.
Yes, true emotions are captured
For all to read at their leisure
In thoughts and images in rhyme,
Giving exquisite pleasure
And, as each reader is touched
The Poem becomes a treasure.
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