Herein lies the tale of an old man’s venture onto the path of a poet…
In L-A-R-G-E letters I write, in letters bold yet pale.
With words not spoken I tell a tale
Of a path not taken which yet I took,
And sought to roam its every nook.
To some it may be captivating.
To others perhaps irritating.
Still, it’s a tale pretty old,
And somehow has to be told.
In the distance it looked bleak, this path of mine,
A million ideas crossing my mind.
A thousand thousand pictures I sought to create,
With words which I tried spitting out but which I ate.
I dared to venture the path of a poet,
A path I ain’t done walking just yet.
Words both grim and gay,
In my head would spin and play.
They would put up such a race
That my brain couldn’t keep the pace
Out the gates of my mouth though, they wouldn’t come.
So I would lend them the tip of my pen.
In my book they’d make themselves a home,
Where they would show up every now and then.
Beautiful pictures that could cheer,
And sometimes grim ones you couldn’t bear,
Were what my words did compose,
Bringing to mind a delightful prose.
Now I sit alone in my little shed,
Having tried my best many lives to enliven.
Broken hearts I tried hard to mend.
Some lessons I have learnt some I have given.
It was worth walking this path of mine,
Though at first I was afraid to try.
Then my pen scribbles these words,
As I reminisce those days in my head.
For indeed this tale I tell
Would also turn out to be my…