Words Poem by Frank Halliwell

I've drifted for these sixty years,
And never really known,
Where life would lead eventually,
Ere the bird of time had flown.

I've always envied those around,
Who've found some means to sway.
The thoughts and views of others,
To change the world some way.

For there's no doubt it needs changing,
It's apparent everywhere,
That half the world is hungry,
And the other half don't care.

But what to do, to make one's mark,
This emptiness to fill,
Inspired things on canvas
May require certain skill.

And so I'll take the easy path,
And be a poet choose...
For the poet's work is said to be
Inspired by the Muse....

The artist and the poet
Are really much the same
They work and struggle for the heart,
And not for wealth or fame.

They use their art to illustrate
Those things they've seen and heard.
One toils with strokes of coloured paint,
The other paints with words.

In just a week or two at most,
It's all come very plain,
That poetry and I are one,
As flowers need the rain.

It seems the Muse has been nearby,
As life has moved along.
For I have oft been deeply moved
By the poet's siren song.

To take a quivering, naked thought,
When it has but been born,
To nurse it, clothe it, flesh it out,
To give it shape and form.

To polish, and to change it,
Into something it was not,
To transmute the ordinary,
To the pinnacle of thought!

It's funny now to contemplate
What one incident has wrought.
A disagreement with a vendor
Wherein I justice sought.

So when, in desperation,
One brought verse into the fray.
The Muse appeared, unbidden,
And changed, without delay....

A lover of the natural world
And friend of wild, free birds,
To the stumbling composer
Of a symphony of words.

Mad, rhyming words that ebb and surge,
Like flotsam in my head.
Frustrating sleep and causing me
To rise up from my bed...

To write them down, lest I forget,
And cause them to go free...
For in their restless ebb and flow,
The words, they nurture me.

An amalgam of well chosen words,
To make the spirit soar.
From the miracle of childbirth,
To heroic deeds in war.

Sad words that speak of tragedy
Bring moisture to the eye,
And wonder, at the faith some have
In guidance from on high.

The tap, tap, on the podium,
Calls for quiet in the hall.
With baton raised, the poet
Plays his symphony, for all.

A vagrant breeze just stirs the leaves,
In pianissimo.
A crescendo builds up, layer on layer,
To shake the earth below.

The Muse intrudes into my dream,
Though I've not been long abed,
I wipe the sand from weary eyes,
'The time is nigh', she said.

'For you must rise and start anew,
Your night's sleep surely ends!
For the words have all come back again,
And brought along their friends! '
o0o