Oh, how to match such verbose grandeur,
from what armoury can I the words borrow,
to publish a poem true how much have I to suffer,
most certain this line will end with sorrow,
what have I to offer, what beauty to match the song of a sparrow.
Do my simple words their standards fail to suffice,
true, I too judge faulty grammar as below par,
simplicity not a fault that would crumble my edifice,
someday not far away I will go daringly far,
I concede that inside words sweet honey is mixed careless tar.
In its entirety not one work satisfies me,
yet inside are verses precious than gems,
my ramblings truer than her verses we see,
why nought for me and she printed emblems,
world looses, not I who keeps scribbling to while away my boredoms.
My subjects wrong not dwelling on love or pain,
nor do I speak of nature and its infinite beauty,
I rather dabble with solitude in a lighter vein,
with petty considerations I’ve breached poet’s duty,
what loftier subject can I labour upon than my own soul sooty.
Wherefrom springs such deep harsh anger sore,
when I cannot pick one from the many to be in print,
not flowers but thorns in them I see more and more,
am I prosaic with little metaphors, imagery and subtle hint,
I under estimate the reader and so clarify disposing the lint.
Is the fact that I am a thief the reason for such bother,
I steal form and more from others as this from skylark,
or am I in the wrong place, this blog that does smother,
Why print? I seek recognition from the mouths of a shark,
to convince that I didn’t waste my time trying to climb up this bark.
Daring subject this, dazzling direct, not so subtle,
I have sung and hung, raved and ranted for what?
What I hope to accomplish with verses so brittle?
join beggars’ club and called a poet self taught,
unlike the melodies of cuckoo my simple verses have evils fraught.
I am no Keats, Yeats or Shelley
nor am I Frost, Eliot or Wordsworth
but I do have a creative pang in my belly,
and my rhymes can warm any hearth,
and someday shall earn in gentle hearts the widest of berth.
The muse is partial and haunts me with absence,
but with or without her I shall write,
at times she guides me with bright incandescence,
at such times glory hangs, a wondrous sight,
in verses seen, but never in entirety of my work does beauty bite.
The muse my love, passion and heartthrob,
that girls with beauty divine can’t compete,
there was a girl that left me and I did sob,
was before creative fire my entire being permeate,
my work wheat and chaff but who will separate the golden wheat.
If somehow my prayers are answered,
and for print I am asked to select a few,
what will I chose and for what reasons absurd,
for me the smoke means as much as the dew,
for they are mine and me alone that created them true.
Perhaps I must prepare myself for future,
creating beauty at its purest with endearing verses,
mustn’t rush to put words on paper premature,
to till the land, until found the promised land of Moses,
beware of beauty mixed with dirt as direct result of my former curses.
The sun has risen, the sun has set and has risen again,
and all that beauty of nature at its best lost to me,
all this time rhyming like a man possessed without a gain,
if you can’t lighten my load, listen to me, then please let me be,
someday have prowess to find yearnings of all men and set them free.
I’ve never ventured further than where I am now,
will there be folks who will come with me this far ahead,
Will they tire of length and abandon before the final bow,
will this be read and admired or be mixed with garbage shed,
my fingers tired, but mind afresh to spew more of the words to be wed.
I can go on and on but am sure these words won’t be printed,
I am yet an apprentice that might never amass skills of a master,
using my meagre skills and eager soul, no coin is to be minted,
so I end my slow simple ramblings in the world growing faster,
I shall be back with verses more beautiful than mortal words can muster