Here are a few more of my efforts at poetry:
I was saved the other day by a hero,
But not one as the world views.
They faced no fearsome danger,
No task to try their thews.
My hero had no mighty sword-
No gem of power and might.
There was no beast of legend fame
No blinding flash of light.
Yet ir-regardless that there was no threat
A hero he still remains.
For he saved me from deep despair,
And recalled my sense and name.
For I was lost upon the pathway
Of self-pity and of gloom,
Which surely would have destroyed me,
Would certainly have meant my doom.
But my hero came upon me
While I dwelt in my prison of woe,
And lifted my downtrodden spirit
Though I’m sure he did not even know.
A kind word and a pat on the back,
Or praise as he walked out the door
Were enough to insure my salvation.
It was this, and nothing more.
I heard a knock upon my door
Before the twilight’s passing,
And went to let them in,
This person who was asking
When the portal there was opened,
And my guest came into view,
I found Hunger there a’callin’,
But why—I hadn’t a clue.
I asked why he had come
To my home, where we had plenty.
We had never known his face,
In fact we shared with many.
He said, “I’ve been a’watchin’
As you’ve ‘et and shared with others.
I’ve watched as you’ve cooked your vittles,
For your sisters and your brothers.”
“You’ve cooked roasts and whole turkeys,
With both sauce and cream gravy.
I’ve seen pies, cakes, and potatoes,
And beans both green and navy.”
“You’ve baked breads with oats and honey.
You’ve made soups and chili too.
You’ve had beets, and rice, and apples,
Carrots, corn, and cheese that’s new.”
“I’ve seen you cookin’ eggs,
And toast with jam and jelly.
In fact, I’ve seen you cookin’
All good things to fill one’s belly.”
“Now after centuries of watchin’
Folk who have little meat for carvin’
I think I’d like to eat my fill
So please start cookin’ now—I’m starvin’!”
Bows and Arrows
The arrow from the Fletcher’s hands
Is straight, and clean, and true.
Likewise the bow, with string and limb,
Was crafted perfect when it was new.
But neither the bowyer in his workshop,
Nor the Fletcher in his den,
Can make the arrow strike the mark
That’s aimed poorly in the fen.
The wood of the bow is helpless,
Though it gives strength and spring,
But it cannot shoot straight to it’s mark,
Without the tautness of the string.
The arrow in all it’s strength,
With feathered vanes and tip,
Cannot fly, and strike to home,
Lest the bow aid in the trip.
Each archer who is given
Shaft, and string, and bow,
Controls the fate of the arrow’s path,
And whither it shall go.
‘Tis said, “We hit right where we aim,
Whether ‘tis the spot we chose, or nay.”
So send your bolts with proper care
To have success by end of day.
Have a great day! Stick.