Lions After Men

A simple boy of twenty-three
Sat down to write a poem.
To search his thoughts and memory,
He used a fine-toothed comb.

He took a sip of spectacle
And raised the window's cup.
The view was quite magnificent.
He then by chance looked up.

Of course! The sun! The closest star!
For sure, a poem is nigh.
"O everlasting ball of flame
That guards the azure sky!

"You give us heat, you give us light,
You shine upon our shores...

Oh darling, please come back to me.
My heart is surely yours."

He stopped himself and took a breath
And spoke unto his brain.
"Are cheesy love poems all you have?
They're boring and inane!

"Try writing something fresh and fun,
A detour from the trite.
Or maybe words of grace and wit,
A bold, prophetic write!"

He zeroed on the task at hand
And opened up his mind,
His inner quiet settled down,
His focus realigned.

He pictured rivers flowing far
And fields that stretch out wide.
He dreamed where Mother Nature lives
Was where the sorrow died.

He put the desk to paper and
The paper to the pen.
His thoughts begot the ink to run
Like lions after men.

"The water runs from spring to sea.
The winds caress the grass...

And when she's sitting next to me,
I love my bonny lass!"

He shook his head in disbelief,
Not knowing what to say.
The toothpaste tube of art was dry;
He'd used the last cliché.

A country drive is what he'd need
To flee this little hell:
Some sights and sounds, relaxing while
Replenishing the well.

He drove his car a hundred miles
On into Tennessee
When something massive caught his eye:
A grand, majestic tree!

The monumental sprout of oak,
A thousand yards in size,
Erupted from the ground below
And spewed into the skies.

It clearly was the catalyst
To craft his common words:
"For all the flocks and all the schools
And all the thund'ring herds,

"The gods and titans gave this tree,
Reminding us of them...

My pumpkin means so very much,
A brilliant, priceless gem!"

Another poem desensitized,
Dejected, he returned
To where his house was standing, still;
His muses had adjourned.

Reluctantly, he sat to pen
A lovey-dovey poem,
For that is all his brain would write,
Enough to fill a tome.