My Fair Maiden, Poetry

I find myself at desk with pen
And sudden urge to write again,
With mind to irrigate a soil
Left barren for more urgent toil.

This craft or pastime, once my strength,
Neglected now for such a length
Of time that I had grown unused
To crafting simple pleasure produce.

I stressed too much the use of words
And phrases, images and sounds
To please sterner critics rather
Than liberate my caged soul.

It matters not that I propose
To vary simple and verbose,
Nor that I sometimes rhyme my verse
Or mix the rambling with the terse.

To frolic with Simplicity,
Yet hold hands with Complexity,
Is not an infidelity
To my fair maiden, Poetry.


Popular posts from this blog

A Secret Christmas Sonnet