A Poet

A poet sometimes dreams, pale phrases in the dark
He smells the fragrance of the autumn wind, and the flight of the meadowlark
He sees thoughts amidst the shades of time, a journeyman's daily strife
His pen he touches on the palette of words, and paints the pictures of life
Sometimes grey, sometimes colored, in his art we'll find enjoyment
To the reader comes the emotion explosion, and the final judgment
The emotions that are conjured up, weigh upon his pen 
Painting everlasting images, to be remembered now and then

He keeps in his mind his favorite dreams, and sows them in a field
In a poets mind the thoughts it seems, are for his fountain pen to yield
He'll reap the hate, the love, and loneliness, the friends, the enemies, and lies
He'll put his pen to paper as long as he lives
Yet it will thrive long after he dies

4/16/1995