If I were put on the spot and had to recite someone else’s poem, the only one that comes to mind quickly is one I read in a book from the 1800’s.  I don’t know the name of the author.  The poem can speak for itself. Sin is a beast of such hideous mien As to be hated needs but to be seen. But seen too oft familiar its face We first endure, then pity, then embrace.

In this short book you will find Attempts at poems on every line Some for fun some to inspire And lift you up when you tire Will you like them, I cannot say But that you read them I do pray

Quiet fields of green And the water so clean Clear, crisp and cool Flowing gently to a pool. Warm sunshine on my back. Following a dirt track As I take a stroll So healthy for my soul Melodies wafting through the air Recalling friends no longer there Remind me to return To get some sweet kisses From the one who misses Me during my sojourn. I’ve run out of time To wander ‘midst the pine.

There are some things I will not eat That others think are such a treat I do not understand their thoughts What they enjoy leaves me distraught The morsels they desire most Are nothing about which to boast It just does not seem right to me That these things are delicacies

A story told by poets and bards Should touch the hearts of men who read it And make them feel as though they’ve starred And not some character going through it The better the bard the stronger the feeling And some truly leave the reader reeling Art is about conveying emotions To make the blood hot or show true devotion Scenes are painted stroke by stroke To take you away to far off lands Introduce you to other folk Separated by time’s sands

I’ve often wondered what men might think 500 years from now If they should find my humble abode while turning with the plow The earth that builds around my home and covers it through time. Will they sift through the sherds of pots and wipe away the grime And take the time to see the riches that I have gathered round To read the words that I have writ that seem to me profound Or will they merely write an ode about a mouse seen afield And speak of plans gang aft agley ignoring what was revealed

No pain, no gain I say is wrong, For pain is loss and does upset The poor, the rich, the weak, the strong. It gives them each a cause to fret. And that is not a gain I say That leaves them with a debt to pay. Gain can be found without the pain, And outlast fleeting benefits Obtained by means you can’t sustain. The slower way means longer fit. Good habits come from long practices, But pain makes one seek poultices

While most would think it heavenly To see into others minds I think it would be devilry To have that gift of sight To know their inner secrets All their hopes and fears The things they most regret Throughout all their years All that they cannot admit Not even to themselves Yet they find they must submit To those who wish to delve That I should know another’s thoughts Better than they could know their own To see the things that they forgot Is an act I can’t condone