Poetry-Thing Thursday: Their Master the Pen

What of the flowers?
The birds and the bees?
They’re in the wind,
blown to the breeze.

And the desert and sun?
The rains and the sea?
All long behind us,
victims of thee.

How, you might ask.
I can’t quite be sure,
but I know one thing,
they’re long past mature.

They’re not quite expired
but ready to retire,
while new words and images
wait for their sire.

Their master the pen,
will mold them in time,
ink them into being,
with portents and rhyme.

But until then you’ll,
just have to wait,
save your words,
for all to appreciate.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: For The Writers

We all write,
that’s why we’re here,
but none of us know,
to write poorly, I fear.

Do you,
know how;
to speak without,
rhythm,
to know nothing
of pace
I fear we
could never,
really face,
the truth of poor,
timing and words,
without grace.

But why would we,
want to,
I’m sure you’re to ask.
All I can
say is something
about knowing your class,
so that you
never repeat it
fall flat on your ass.

We may have worked,
long and hard,
with each our sufferings–
some of us still
waiting
for what confidence brings.

But sometimes I wonder,
what it’s like to suck–
for every word to be blundered,
or gnarled phrase to get stuck.

Perhaps in due time,
we all learn to rhyme,
without poor reason or logic,
and stop souring the vine.

So this one’s for the writers,
those of my ilk,
think deep as you suckle
cultivate, not bilk.
Remember your words of gravel,
whilst your pen
flows with inken silk.