Inspiration, stranger places,
Shining eyes and drooping faces,
Gusty mountains, open spaces,
Seen through mine own point of view.
Colored ribbons, frilly laces,
Horses straining in their traces,
Pens and pencils, oars and braces,
As I slowly stagger through.
Glory do I praise this day.
Quoth the Westie, “As you say.”
Outside then, I traveled thither,
Back and forth and yon and hither,
Trees will bloom and flowers wither,
All penned down by mine own hand.
Colors gay within the heather,
Sun as light as any feather,
Sights no mortal man may sever,
Flowing gently ‘cross the land.
Creativity, I muse.
Quoth the Westie, “I’m confused.”
Unto him I dare explain
Mysteries of princes slain,
Poetry of Charlemagne and
Of his knights and squires bold.
Of the beast who feels no pain,
Cowering amidst the rain,
Hate and anger breeding plain,
Obvious to any soul.
Poetry in motion free,
Quoth the Westie, “Searcheth me.”
Try once more, I did that night,
To remove him of this blight of
Misconstruing mine own sight from
What I felt and saw and heard.
Cocked his head from left to right, the
Westie turned unto the light,
Senses quiv’ring, tension tight,
Looking past the spoken word.
Shaking ‘til his eyes were free,
Quoth the Westie, “Now I see.”
Then he turned his head to me,
Eyes as wide as they could be,
Listening to my poetry of
Sordid nights and wistful days.
Vagabonds and talking trees,
Whis’pring in the summer breeze,
Talking of their joie de vivre
In exploits past and wicked ways.
Doggie eyes upon me rest.
Quoth the Westie, “Not the best, but
You can rise above the rest
By using poetry in jest, and
Taking pain from off the chests
Of all the weary people here.”
And so I speak and jest and rhyme
Until the very end of time,
The words, they taste of honeyed wine
Resting on my silvered tongue.
A colored, worded pantomime where
Words will smell and scents will rhyme,
The pretty, plain, the ugly, fine,
Their hearts of all their sadness wrung.
My pen has stopped, my race I’ve run.
Quoth the Westie, “Ah, well done.”