To Listen to Music While Reading this Poem, just Click Here!
Click Here To add this poem to your "Voting Possibilities" list!
The Wordsmith. It may have been the ringing anvil, I know naught what brought me there. Perhaps the hammer's steady rhythm or the lilt upon the air. But there I stood upon the threshold of the wordsmith's tiny shop, Wattle, Dawb and Thatch it were with chimneys on the top. A sign above the lintel hung that cast my face a smile, read "Poems written while you wait, though you may have to wait awhile." My hand upon the knob, I eased aside the door. The view inside the tiny room most filled my mind with awe. For there worked the finest wordsmith, in one hand a pair of tongs. Around the walls unfinished sonnets, poems, hymns 'n' songs. A hammer in his other hand looked strangely like a quill. The piece he wrought upon the anvil seemed to sing and rhyme at will. The sparks that showered cross the room would glow and wane, and yet. Were they merely sparks or letters of the alphabet. I thanked the wordsmith for his council, though he'd uttered not a sound. As I gathered up my kit, toward the door I turned around. Then suddenly there tolled a bell, I woke and I could see the bell was my alarm clock, ringing to awaken me. I lay there as the dream began to fade like drifting sand. but from where had come this ancient quill I held there in my hand. With that very quill I scrawled these words, truer now than then. But had I really met the wordsmith, and did I really steal his pen?
This Poem was Critiqued By: Ashni Irey On Date: 2015-08-25 08:39:35
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.75000
Superb poetry! Love the imagery and your dream. Every description was vivid! :)
Click HERE to return to ThePoeticLink.com Database Page!