Poesy

Forever the art survived

Stroked the scars of time

Sometimes caused them

Most, healed them

The pen takes shape in the embrace

of fingers, mind, grace

as the face of history unravels

swells, with human race

a small change, a clock, a grain

a petal, a marble, a cloak, a dagger

words marvel at the tongue

as it sits quiet but alive on paper swagger

Boys coming home from war

Girls crying some

A weeping guitar

Grandma, so lonesome

A wave from a street car

And the pavement so new where I come from

Blazing sun so blue it hurts the yellow sky

Where could I write about all that is mum

In my sixth mind's eye

Without an art to guide my right

To feed my left, to blind my death

But hope to die

Without my art to write a life

So full of death until I die