Making Music
Little master mellow,
quite a lovely older fellow.
Sits in a rocker, on his porch,
making music, by a dim lit torch.
Pen in hand, paper in his lap,
Rhymes in his head, floor littered in scrap.
The stereo is playing the blues,
While the calico cat, lays at his shoes.
The song seems to flow,
Not fast, not slow.
From head to hand,
Like waves upon the sand.
Each verse a vessel, each line a sail,
On this tranquil sea, he will not fail.
Pen in hand, thoughts running deep,
In the quiet of the night, they do not sleep.
The moon above, a silent guide,
Its silver light, the waves divide.
And there he sits, till morning’s glow,
Where dreams take shape, and writers grow.
One of the pieces I pulled out of an old journal. If someone reading this doesn't carry a journal with them everywhere, you do not know what you are missing. I love picking up an old one and trying to remember what I was thinking when I wrote it...
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