Ferdinand L Quintos
A Poet Is A Poet
What am I really up to
trying to write poems?
All my name poems many have read,
they, these people, to light jokes lead,
that with the girl behind each name
some long time past I lit a flame.
But from the truth nothing could be
so far, as far as it could be,
for all this is none but verse,
a craft that sates the universe.
There are so much to write about,
of this there can never be drought,
look skyward or down the earth,
the times will pass, they leave no dearth.
A poet can blow hot or cold,
he too can be timid or bold,
at times he is sweet or bitter,
love-sick today, hate-filled later.
Some people may call him moody,
asking no proof, I plead guilty,
for on it leans good quality
of someone’s productivity.
I write not to climb Parnassus,
though I work with the same onus,
I seek neither cash nor glory,
to be read is, to me, just pay.
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Comments about this poem (A Poet Is A Poet by Ferdinand L Quintos )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
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