My fingers rest upon the keys
waiting for words
that will not come;
neither inspiration.
Hapless “poet”.
Now resting on sleep’s shoulder
drifting on sleep’s shore
young Sandberg visits in a dream
bearing poetry’s ladder.
“Struggling for several years
I have written little” say I
“my only completed works
a few poems, making no mark.
The ladder of poetry
is tall; extremely tall
and I stand on the lowest rung.
I doubt that I will ever climb much higher.”
Sandberg smiled and shook his head.
“What you have done
is no ordinary thing;
to be on the first step
should make you happy and proud
for to be on this first step
is to be far above the ordinary world;
to strive to write what others read
you must first know yourself;
and of the City of Ideas a full citizen be.
To have come this far
is no small achievement
What you have done
is a glorious thing.
And if no one remembers your poems
save your children
well, is that not too
a glorious thing?”
————————————————
photo:http://news.ngs.ru/more/72779/
————————————–
toritto 
I had to look up Carl Sandburg, though I knew Robert Frost. Nice work, Frank.
Best wishes, Pete.
LikeLike
This speaks to me in so many ways. I compose music because it is in me to compose music. What, if any, effect it has on others, negative or positive, I have no control over (and even a ‘negative’ effect can be a positive). It is the composing itself that is important. It is the writing of the poem that is important.
It is how all art and artists begin, at the beginning. Where it goes from there is out of the artists’ hands. Whatever inspired the art to be created, in the first place, takes over from there.
Excellent, Frank!
LikeLike
Another fine socialist.
LikeLiked by 1 person
🙂
LikeLike