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by David R Spellman

Folklore may well never
Get the true sense of me
With which I play, jovially
As I ply these murky waters
Casting my uncertain lots
Without any feigned allure
With no hook, nor line,
Nor sinker to my angles
Just wishing to sing my song
And to sing it again perhaps
In so many different ways
Unabridged, uneven timed
Not to be dwarfed by nor
Seeking to become some giant
Longing only to be heard
From caverns in which I sing
And softly upon your hills.
 

07/16/2002

Posted on 07/24/2002
Copyright © 2020 David R Spellman

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 07/18/03 at 01:21 PM

I like the subtle romance rising from every part of this, both natural and of that you've written this to.

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