another year goes rolling by
in dappled sun or tunnel shy
greening spring of bluest sky
loud ticking of the clock
a saddened naked tree torn down
the baby Jesus with His crown
exchanged for winters foolish clown
and February’s shock
I hunker down by roaring fire
pen in hand to poem aspire
while frigid winds send warnings dire
blow faster than they seem
the dreamer sleeps the hours away
and misses words to help him say
and sleeping right on through the day
misses spring times dream
and yet inside reflected flame
unseen world awaits a name
no one could ever set the blame
the dreamer trance will end
then scribbling fast and faster still
thoughts tripping over words and will
real life can never match the thrill
poets inner sight portend
yet here a warning thought be said
one cannot live just in ones head
to keep the art from falling dead
the soul must outward turn
the outer feeds the inner heart
while inner lets the heart depart
embrace the both to make a start
a candles worth is in the burn
Love the rhymes and hairpin turns of phrases; was especially happy to at first think you intended “to poem” as a verb. Ah, yes, it’s good to see the return of the jazzing, jamming poet again.
Poetic license, though that probably does not extend to my lack of punctuation. I need to go back and add. This was a jot here and a jot there poem as company arrived for the weekend. Happy New Year Anne!
We do unfortunately have to venture outside – our heads – and the outside world (shudder)..mind you our pens would soon run dry if we didn’t..meanwhile a place by the fire sounds good..a comfort as time inevitably marches on