I remember poetry

Like it used to be,

Written by a hand

Any child could understand.

Words that don’t play

But mean what they say.


What there is about

Reflects the eye without.

The inner eye doth see

Locked in memory

The ancient images

On all the pages.


Buried in the light of day

The bards are not afraid to play

But still the sweetest melody

Comes from out the oldest tree

And the root that drinks its fill

Holds the earth together still.