Thursday, August 31, 2006
- By Michael Smith
I picked up pen and paper
Just the other day,
Thinking that maybe I had
Something important to say.
As the pen hit the paper
The thought had run away.
So then, I had another thought
This one would not escape.
So I wrote fast and furious
my thought would not abate.
For mostly when I pick up a pen
It's usually to late.
The thoughts come and go so fast
the pen cannot relate.
The verses fly into the wind
I write before it's too late.
The jumbled words fly before my eyes
I'd like to put them down on paper
Before I realize
that all the things I'd like to say are jumbled in a maze.
How to keep the thoughts all straight
I really don't know how.
I try to do my very best,
Just like now.
Sometimes the lines are funny,
Sometimes they are dear,
But always worth reading
Though often not very clear
When I talk
Of love and such,
I wonder if
it's too much.
But if it makes someone smile
I know I've done my best.
And if it makes your heart melt,
Well you know the rest.
So when the urge to write comes on
I quickly pick up a pen,
For I never really know
If it will pass this way again.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
The Human Seasons - John Keats
Four seasons fill the measure of the year;
There are four seasons in the mind of Man:
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
He has his Summer, when luxuriously
Spring's honeyed cud of youthful thought he loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves
His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
He furleth close; contented so to look
On mists in idleness -to let fair things
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook: -
He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
Or else he would forgo his mortal nature