Comment Poem by Fred Babbin

Within the four walls of my room
whose door will open to
a garden, palace, shrine,
or setting so sublime
I know not where I am.
except to say that I can
form words with my mind
to make illusions that can wind
and wind until they cram
the valleys of my brain
and make visionary pictures
for those who choose to enter
my domain

But when I am in check,
I know not where I am
I know not where to go
and so I stop.
And think and wait and hope
that while I grope for words I feel that will
take me to the winner’s circle
we all seek before we die
I will try and try and hope
that by and by
the words will come
to slake the thirst of passion
all the followers of fashion wish to quench
by reading what we writers write
on paper, walls, or any other surface
that will meet our pen, or pencil, chalk or
anything at all that will make a mark.
upon that wall or paper we park our words
and think how wonderful we are
to be so light and lively
or so dark and so forbidding.