The Mighty Pen Poem by Carolyn Brunelle

So many could say it
with better command
of the language; they who
wield words as a mighty sword
against mindless cretin horde.

Others gush, bleed on paper;
wash their souls clean
through ink stained expressions
in storied pain and sorrow,
deep trenches of regret.

Those perfumed in natural eloquence
pour themselves out from high places
create whole new canyons; bridge
corridors to other worlds in the spaces
between heart and mind.

The silly rhymes and sing songs
a gay fringe on dusty volumes
of masters from the past;
bless the jesters who spill their light
and joy to stir creative tone.

A lowly minstrel am I who strums
simple tunes from day to day;
small is my ship on creative sea
but I still sail, offer hope to other
wayward ships along the way.