Poet Poem by Rebecca Stansfield

Of that Taylor Coleridge and more,
A fellow of tomorrow.
Forgotten non-living poet,
Idea's at his door.


Behold of a poet living style,
When he passes his age.
Begotten and forgotton,
On- supsended, pilgrimage.

But when it be that he does succeed,
Through history and through dirt,
Touching slightly of a poets needs,
A pen paper and a rose.

'My pen is of device,
Proufound, black and full of style,
And there is no other life,
And I know I'll live long.'

And the langauge in such literature,
Is that creates the moods,
Sorrow, love and joys wrapped all in one,
Which clarity removes.

Singing, snoring, poet making,
Selected, published of their intelligence,
All love-making of the poets who choose,
Minder matter over glance.