My First Experience With A Pen Poem by Della Hodgson James

The very first time I ever tried
  My thoughts in verse to write,
You would have laughed, had you been there
  For I could not get them quite.
But that inner voice would prompt me so
  And like a movie reel,
My thoughts would often unwind fast
  In such a curious speel.

I did not understand at first
  Yet, like time with every step,
My thoughts would tumble around me
  Only stopping when I slept.

They would all be there, yet tumbled up
  I knew not the beginning or end,
But the subject would be so well outlined
  I was delirous to begin.

I'd gather up pad and pencils
  And steel away someplace,
Yet, before I'd get a line or two
  Or cover very much space.

Along would come this other self
  This stubborn Will of mine,
And tell me that to dabble so
  Was such a sordid crime.

He'd sit right down before my face
  And stare me in the eye,
Till I'd jump up and flee away
  Then just sit down and cry.

Then it would be, O many a day
  Before I'd try again,
For I was half persuaded that
  To write, was such a sin.

But when I'd go among the flowers
  Or view some bubbling spring,
Climb upon some mountain high
  And hear the sweet birds sing.

Again would come that inner voice
  And prompt my thoughts to stay,
Fill my soul with sweetest peace
  And o'er my mind hold sway.

Again with pad and pencil
  With words no more delayed,
I'd catch the glorious sunbeams
  Or the precious blending shade.

The beauty of each little flower
  I could only the colors trace,
Of earth and sky together
  Deduced to a miniature space.

Ah! Did you ever stop to peek
  Into the throat of some tiny bloom,
O, won't you, readers? If you've not.
  It would be such a boon.

They hold all the reflections
  Of God's glory up on high,
They are here to cheer and brighten
  Yet each day we pass them by.

But then, I started out to tell
  When my lines would begin to hit,
Up would bob that nuisance, Will
  And I'd tear them all to bits.

Yet, as time went on, I hit on a plan
  That would fool old Will, the slickest,
I'd write a verse than slip away
  I'd write it, ah, the quickest.

But when I'd written several things
  I very much surprised, found.
While every thing I'd written down
  Old Will, had been slipping around.

Yet, secret courage, I had found
  Within the abyss of my heart,
No matter how old Will, might scoff
  I would not with them part.

I think at last, Will reconciled
  For he does not scoff so often,
I guess he's a wee bit sorry, too
  Yet, he does not seem to soften.

I guess that little inner voice
  Has him whipped for sure,
So what he cannot help a bit
  He will silently endure.