David McLansky

Rookie - 437 Points (5/24/1944 / New York City)

A Bard Limp Stands


A Bard limp stands
Before the sea,
Resplendent in its majesty,
And envies it, this endless ocean,
Its restless strength
Its ceaseless motion;

Threadbare in his journeyed clothes,
Haggard by the things he knows;
Sunshine stillness in the air
His wisdom mute from woe and care;

His eye casts back upon the path
His journey now at struggling last;
Exhausted, dusted by the road
His little pack a burning load.

His many songs on maidens lips;
His merry jests, his joyful quips,
Still spoken of in taverns round
Which others might have written down.

The Bard leans heavy on his stick,
His dancing feet no longer quick;
His grizzled beard a shaggy gray,
The ocean speckled in the bay;

The fractured sunlight splits the bay
The shattered sunlight on town and quay
Inviting him to descend the ridge
And cross the ancient stonework bridge.

His cap is stuck with turf and hay
His coat in strips wild flaps and flays;
The wind whips up within the bay
And gently chides him on his way;

With coming night, he seeks a field,
A tight stone wall, a good wind shield
Or better yet, a farmer's hearth,
To warm him as he plays his harp.

There is a tree below a road
Where once he camped, unpacked his load;
A peaceful spot by bridge and stream,
Where once he had such youthful dreams

Submitted: Friday, August 09, 2013
Edited: Wednesday, September 04, 2013

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Comments about this poem (A Bard Limp Stands by David McLansky )

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  • Gold Star - 10,433 Points Ramesh Rai (9/30/2013 10:09:00 PM)

    Beautiful thoughts, expression, emotion, write. a natural enchanting verse. loved your write. (Report) Reply

  • Rookie - 39 Points Malini Kadir (9/19/2013 1:03:00 PM)

    His cap is stuck with turf and hay
    His coat in strips wild flaps and flays;
    The wind whips up within the bay
    And gently chides him on his way;
    I could almost visualize these lines (Report) Reply

  • Veteran Poet - 3,206 Points Pradip Chattopadhyay (8/9/2013 6:20:00 AM)

    His many songs on maidens lips;
    His merry jests, his joyful quips,
    Still spoken of in taverns round
    Which others might have written down

    now worn out and cast away! a delight to read these wonderful rhymes. (Report) Reply

Read all 4 comments »

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