A strummer of strings, among other things,
As soft as the thrum of beating wings;
And, when that forgotten son does sing,
O’er forest and fjords, his heart does ring.
He rises with the restless day,
With a hopeful smile upon his face;
Despite the obstacles in his way,
Of his fear, he shows no trace.
On days he doesn’t feel his best,
He grunts and pushes through the pain.
Some days his brain’s a foggy mess,
Left (out)standing in the pouring rain.
An honest man, with stoic stature,
Wondering through his wizened woods;
By camera shutter, the poet captured,
Earth’s enchantments, as he could.
Through a looking lens of grace, he gazes,
On grasses of the earth, he grazes,
Spitting fine poetic phrases,
Whilst on the finest herb, he blazes.
Made of sugar, spice, and everything nice,
With a pinch of piss and vinegar;
And although he has the gift of gab(e),
He’s an extraordinary listener.
I can only hope to be, someday,
A man of such integrity…
And to think I let my silly problems
Get the fucking best of me.