The Poet ⁕ A Poem

Welcome, Wanderers, to the first piece of August. Today’s poem is a playful reflection on the nature of inspiration and those who go in search of it.

The poet sat waiting for a breath of inspiration,
From the whispering voice of the dawn.
For a smooth string of words from the song of the birds
That might hasten his writing along.

The poet stood still while he yearned for a thrill
From the rushing and gurgling falls.
His soul drank in the sight while he hoped for the might
That is needed when poetry calls.

The poet, despairing, and now hardly caring
Sat down at his desk in defeat.
He stared at the walls, heard no beckoning calls,
And he slowly sank back in his seat.

“It will come, it will come!” he cried, feeling dumb.
“From this room there must come inspiration!”
But the walls in the room simply stared back in gloom
And there came not a single sensation.

Then the poet arose, and his face he composed,
And the wonderful answer, he knew it.
“I’ll pick up my pen, my paper, and then,
I’ll sit down at my desk and I’ll do it!”

Anna Myer is an aspiring Christian author who loves reading, writing, and listening to Lamplighter Theater audio dramas. You can find more stories by her on her Substack.

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