Posted by: Peadar Ban | January 12, 2018

An Old Man’s Poem

I started a poem the other day.

I waved the pen that I held in my hand..

No, it was a pencil… to muster Words.

They lay sleeping, lazy things, in my mind.

And, then I stopped, staring at the tiled floor.

Wondered what was wrong.  Saw cobwebs.  Heard crickets.


Everything was there, paper, pencil.  But

Words, neat companies, battalions of words

Which would have mustered, marched in rank on rank

Obedient, Brave, well trained; my sweet boon

Companions…(Did I say Brave?)…  Words failed me.


Sweet they slept, deep, and all I could was hope

Somewhere, near or far’ I don’t know, somewhere

A muse, on duty in sylvan meadow,

At rest on a lily pad in some deep

Calm mountain mirrored, flower bordered lake

Eating honeyed fruit from a Centaur’s hand

Would get a clue.


But, no!  And, like a phantom from the farthest star

Inspiration flew






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