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The Sower

R

Robert Harrison

Guest
In the quiet hours in the still of night
When all outside is lost from my sight,
I sit in my chair in all to favored nook.
And upon my lap my very own book
In which I have copied over the years,
Words, and with them unchecked tears.
A line from Wordsworth, or McNiece,
Words and phrases, which I try to piece
Together, with thoughts of my choosing,
A poem is born after laborious musing.
That in all honesty I can claim my own,
The words of others are carefully sown
Into a new garden, the seeds of the past
Again, to burst forth in new rhyme to last.
I, the poet, sower of seeds from the refined
May, reap the rich harvest of a poets mind.
 
Hello Robert - I really like this poem - you tell it like it is Beryl M
 
Thank you Beryl,

Some poems warrent comment while others are read with interest
then, not so much passed over as unbefitting a reply, but that no
reply is required having given satisfaction at being read.
My poem Eventide was writen in just a few minutes. The idea came
at seeing all of the large fruit bats that fly over my home every night
in search of fruit. For some morbid reason they all look like small
Draculas seeking their prey.

I believe that if it comes to mind write it down. Something may come of it.

Robert
 
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