Self-Named: Always-My-Words Poem by Mark Heathcote

It was hard to compete
With the likes of Pete, a poet wordsmith
Many like me admired and aspired.

His art & his wit were like…
Well, a multi-coloured rainbow,
A Tiffany glass lampshade
That shone on the desk of a darkened world.

At times Pete's words were opalescent
At others
He was just infectiously pleasant
Like all well-oiled sunshine is after a raincloud.

But here was a man to esteem;
Whose words clip-clopped along at some pace
And speed, elegance and grace.
Do you know what I mean?

Like a racehorse that's never lost a race
Never came close to conceding into second place
But have the good breeding, poise and sense
Have the decency, the charm of a man unassuming.

He was never, never, a pretentious prig.
He was always a poet with an olive sprig,
He was a poet with an olive branch of friendship.
A bother I guess of unequal laureateship.



Ode to Pete Crepeau