I’m not called a farmer,
But with weather warmer,
I’ll go out and dig in the plat.
I’ll set out tomatoes
And plant some potatoes,
And no one will chide me for that.
But when I begin
To write what’s within
In rhythmic form on a page,
I’m sure there are those
Who will be disposed
To say, “He’s no poet or sage.”
I’m not called a poet.
I’m not, and I know it!
But tales about places and times
Are remembered best,
Though glibly expressed,
Through verses with meter and rhyme.
I’ll never attain
A fortune or fame.
As a bard I’ll find no employment.
I just write one line,
The second to rhyme,
Solely for my own enjoyment.
My English prof said
As a poem was read
That poetry spontaneously shows
Through pencil and pen
Of women and men
Who let powerful feelings o’erflow.
The Lord only knows
If only the pros
Were permitted to write poetry,
We’d all be the worse
Without simple verse
That’s written by dabblers like me.
Do, dear friend of mine,
If you are inclined
My simple, crude verses to spurn
And if you should be
A critic, feel free
To read Shakespeare, Shelley, and Burns!