A Day of Poems it was to be, for

he believed his muse to only visit

on random days. So, in his way

he would write, sporadically, with

great bursts of passion; some days

no words came at all.

She heard the fall and ran,

finding him there, beside his desk,

the pen stopped , the line scrawled,

the muse would come no longer.

No more for him a Day of Poems.

I can see him now before me,

peppered mane, piercing blue eyes,

thunder in his voice, gentleness

in his great soul, and I ask,

"Did you know, poet?

Did the pain that shot through

your arm, end up in those final lines?"

The scrawl, unreadable at the end,

says nothing but tells all.

And I, knowing now,

if I'm to be taken, let it be

on a Day of Poems.

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