Bill Cantrell Poems

Who knows a poets worth?
Who knows the hands of time?
The songs of life,
the poet must sing,
...

The beauty of this sunset;
writings on our makers wall
It's colors cannot be recalled,
once night's curtain falls
...

Oh blue day,
you finally arrived,
all pain, you have driven away
...

What is poetry?
We are a mouse,
wandering aimlessly,
seeking passage through its maze
...

The Rolling Stones,
have turned to bones,
still their music rocks
...

From the other side of the pen,
A poet enters a dream
Upon the matrix of our designs,
We are collecting bones,
...

Increments in eternity,
These were the cobblestones of my days
How quickly they go forgotten,
Seems worthless in many ways
...

The pen who never catches sleep,
Will never know just how to weep
From poem to poem without a breath
The poet overlooks his death
...

There is no depth to the end of each day,
And yet, this flesh is longing for home
This dead end road has no street sign,
As a poet becomes undone
...