Ode to the Penniless Poet

Ode to the penniless poet
That sits in the square
He writes for neither glory nor riches
Nor for any other selfish flair
He writes because that is all he has
For the rest he does not care

He eyes are dim and nearly blind
His clothes are worn from lack of mending
But were you to spare him a moment
Put off your tending
He'll tell you of all the things your seeing eyes are blind to
All the worlds that he sees blending

He'll tell you of the nymphs that go dancing in the square
Of the kelpies that prance on the green lake shores
Of the little sprites that hang on the coat tales of passersbys
Of the night parties that are told of in the folk lores
Of the elfin courts that meet in their Fay burrows
Of the little brownies that try to help children with their chores

The little gremlins that play on the traffic lights
The weeping willow who morns her lost love
The gnomes that are ever searching for their gold on Wall Street
The tiny fairies that ride on the backs of the morning dove
The changelings that come out at night
The sprites that like to give lovers a little shove

The fairies that play with the jogger's ipod songs
The unicorns in human form charming the ladies into brushing their manes
The little dwarfs that bicker with the squirrels that steal their acorns
Of the lordly dragon thanes
Of the goblin that found a friend at last
Of the fantastic feasts, ever humanity's banes

He'll tell you of the oak's cries at the iron pain that encircles its trunk
Of the fading magic all around
Of the Fay's fading light
Of their many a mournful sound
Of their constant dieing and departure from his sight
Of their many drums and fists pound

He'll tell you his sadness at their departure
Hearing only his rhyming words, you'll not see
The light leaving the world
The little fairies that around him be
The polluted lakes where no mermaid would swim
You'll not see the frail fragile wings on his back, blowing in the wind.