The need to write, the yearning heart
Impels the braver ones to start.
So many try, but few are chosen
To publish words of silk or poison.
Pen to paper, mind and eye
Look within or scan the sky.
Some words are awkward, other lame–
tripping, hobbling stories maimed.
Some dressed pretty in wings of wax
toward warmth of sunlight fly to bask.
Then feathered plumes begin to fall
and shattered dreams are drowned in gall.
Some lucky one grabs tight the ring.
She’s found the prize with words that sing.
Her words sing out and touch another
She’s worked her magic but must go further.
Immersed in life at every moment
It’s life itself that makes the poet!