Array ( [sid] => 178720 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => A Too Formidable Endeavour [time] => 2014-07-06 12:45:06 [hometext] => What happens when my pen grows ambition [bodytext] =>


My fingers stall....
How to wrap them into the tapping,
producing the poem summing up all;
reducing deducing the ebb and the flow
to that almighty summation, in apathy waiting,
just behind that invisible wall.
An hour of staring, no answers appearing-
a sentence retracted, redacted times beyond number;
with silence so blaring, a cosmos unsparing,
perhaps there's a reason this summation so slumbers.
One might as well write of glorious love,
Though of this all knowing pie I hope to be baking,
as grand as love is, it's 'ere but a slice.
This endeavor I've set, lofty indeed,
With hours expired, fool that I am, rube I must be-
Millions of pens, (my ego forgot)
from charcoal on reeds to Monte Blanc perfection
and all in between,
have grappled and wrastled, just as I am-
But yay and hooray! I've found my way free!
Down with my pen,
(my yard beckons you see- I heard the grass calling, now don't laugh at me),
thus now I confess, my ego at rest, (ever good)
as of course it should be,
I say to the sky and things without ears
I can't do in an hour what far greater minds
have failed to find in millions of years;
I may be a poet, though still just a man,
penning this pie a slice at a time;
the summation so great, I'm afraid it must wait
for that curtain to part when I kick the can.
[comments] => 3 [counter] => 200 [topic] => 7 [informant] => invierno [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => HumorPoetry ) Your Poetry Dot Com - A Too Formidable Endeavour


A Too Formidable Endeavour
Date: Sunday, 6th July 2014 @ 12:45:06 PM AEST
Topic: Sad Poetry

Contributed By: invierno



My fingers stall....
How to wrap them into the tapping,
producing the poem summing up all;
reducing deducing the ebb and the flow
to that almighty summation, in apathy waiting,
just behind that invisible wall.
An hour of staring, no answers appearing-
a sentence retracted, redacted times beyond number;
with silence so blaring, a cosmos unsparing,
perhaps there's a reason this summation so slumbers.
One might as well write of glorious love,
Though of this all knowing pie I hope to be baking,
as grand as love is, it's 'ere but a slice.
This endeavor I've set, lofty indeed,
With hours expired, fool that I am, rube I must be-
Millions of pens, (my ego forgot)
from charcoal on reeds to Monte Blanc perfection
and all in between,
have grappled and wrastled, just as I am-
But yay and hooray! I've found my way free!
Down with my pen,
(my yard beckons you see- I heard the grass calling, now don't laugh at me),
thus now I confess, my ego at rest, (ever good)
as of course it should be,
I say to the sky and things without ears
I can't do in an hour what far greater minds
have failed to find in millions of years;
I may be a poet, though still just a man,
penning this pie a slice at a time;
the summation so great, I'm afraid it must wait
for that curtain to part when I kick the can.


This poem is Copyright © invierno


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