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 touch,
His words are his colorful paints,
He mixes and blends each color he pens,
His words emerge without restraint.
Sizes and shapes, shadows and shades,
All flow from the poet's pen,
Length, depth, height, breadth; warm life, cold death,
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 used.
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 cold,
As it describes a nose or toe,
And blue, too, may say a man is sad,
While The Blues are songs sung low.

How great to have a brush-like pen,
With such beauty at one's command,
That the sky becomes a crystal blue,
That the blind can see and understand.
To vividly portray with words,
A sunset on a rolling sea,
Takes a very special paint brush
That will allow a heart to see.
The power of the paltry pen,
Cannot be measured or told,
But it can turn a meager tablet,
Into a palette filled with gold.

Virginia (Ginny) Ellis
Copyright April 2007

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