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A younger Poet
by louis gander
5/01/2012 / Poetry
I dab some ink on end of quill,
and draft a poem right until,
my paper stack is all used up
and empty is my coffee cup.
My hand that shakes all on its own,
is held in place by fragile bone
so every verb and every noun
is marred when they are written down.
It seems to me to be so cruel,
for such a weak and senile fool,
with varicose and bulging veins
with all my many aches and pains,
to write more words until they're right
this poetry - despite my sight,
that grows so weak so often now.
I wonder if I still know how...
Yet may my writing not disguise
that God is good and God is wise -
for God has blessed and has in store
His endless grace and all the more.
We often think we know it all
and brag before our humble fall -
yet may we learn this simple truth:
that ink can change a prideful youth.
So I will write 'til truth is taught
and everlasting grace is sought.
Before I die, for what it's worth,
I'll pray for one more poet's birth -
to carry on, to take my place,
to teach more youth of every race.
So dab I ink, on end of quill,
until a younger poet will...
Copyright 2017 by louis gander.
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