Beauty lies in the beholder's eyes,
So say sagacious men,
But I theorize it also lies
At the tip of a poet's pen.
His pen is the brush that yields to his
His words are his colorful paints,
He mixes and blends each color he
His words emerge without restraint.
Sizes and shapes, shadows and
All flow from the poet's pen,
Length, depth, height, breadth; warm life, cold
Over and over again.
Hot summer days, cold winter nights,
Must be shown in suitable hues,
Reds and yellows, blacks and whites,
Are the words most often
Obviously, the color blue
Has meaning without end,
Black and blue means a man is bruised,
While true blue means best friend,
Blue may also show a man is
As it describes a nose or toe,
And blue, too, may say a man is
While The Blues are songs sung low.
How great to have a brush-like
With such beauty at one's
That the sky becomes a crystal
That the blind can see and
To vividly portray with words,
A sunset on a rolling sea,
Takes a very special paint
That will allow a heart to
The power of the paltry pen,
Cannot be measured or told,
But it can turn a meager
Into a palette filled with gold.
Virginia (Ginny) Ellis
Copyright April 2007