Let The Quill Move

How bony is a poet's wage in this world of plenty!

Deformation may mark your name beyond your passing

Poverty may scream from the folds of your empty wallet

Appreciation in the village of your birth may never come

Scorn may curl its venomous lips to take away your joy  

So, you may ask ‘why’ then.   Why bleed your soul?

Why take the wheel of this vehicle of intimate thoughts?

Render yourself a puppet to dance, cry, take the fools’ part?

If you don’t, flowers will never pollenate the ‘righteous’ way

Snow will fall silently on green pines under the shine of moon;

Without a thought being given to the serenity it provokes

Struggles of a proud mothers’ final days; have no consequence  

 Memories will fade as dust to the wind or sunsets into the sea

 Though you may never shake the hand of recognition, in life

 Or be scorned as a vagabond in ripped clothes trespassing

  Be not discouraged, or dissuaded from painting the canvas

  Comfort is within you to give, and within you to heal yourself

   O tell, of Gilded roads, deep dark places, love lost love gained

or just scream into the angry wind…

   And so on, and so on...just let the quill move, piloted by inspiration.