I write words the best I can
tho they may dangle or hang.
Each one is part of an attempt
for me to get the biggest bang.
No matter how much I struggle
or the effort I put into it
I always get the feeling
there's just a wee more bit.
Don't get me wrong tho
I enjoy what I do write
Its just the desire to make
the words come out right.
I want them all to touch you
change or fill your emotion
I suppose its more like a balm
the way one rubs on lotion.
My words are targeting
the deepest part of your soul
Hopefully getting you to react
to feelings both new and old.
I just write my words
the very best I can
Maybe that's why I'm called
the Old Poetry Man.
Del Cano 2006 June
6 comments:
Words are your music and your dance.
Through your words we find romance.
Words are your canvas; words are your brush;
With words, you paint a garden lush.
Thank you ~
Dianna
Hi Spencer !!!!!!!!!!!!!! Your poems are like seashells I find on my camping trips to the beach each one is different, new, wonderful and beautiful. All of your words touch me, make me smile, make me laugh, make me think, make me wonder, make me look at things in a new way.
This poem is another wonderful seashell........This one is as perfect as all of them. Thank you for sharing these seashells, pieces of art, pieces of gold, pieces of star dust. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.
Ode to the Poet
He struggles
He rants and raves:
He dances
The words obey...
Following his skillful fingers
they dance out to song
Loving the
Mix and match
he pulls them along...
"ah"..I hear a sigh...
"I give so much and yet.."
his big eyes look to the horizon
"there are new words which are following me yet"
natalie
I'm honored to know that "old Poetry man"...he's cool!
Gem :-)
Old Poetry Man....Your words always target my soul.
Myke
I write with a rhythm, I write with a beat, while I'm listening to your musical poetry so sweet. I dance in the morning, and I'm dancing at night, for I sense out emotions and hold them to light. So you just keep on writing in pome and in rhyme for the way of the mystic is so hard to define, Old Poetry Man.
Marlene-PurelyPoetry
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