This Poet...

This Poet is a poor man
A homeless carefree bird
He tries as much as he can
But he only has his word

In silence weaves his vivid verse
He rhymes and chimes with rain
Whether they be long or terse
He pens his joy and pain

This poet is a fearless guy
Save his creator fears none
Believes himself rather than
On providence to get things done

They laugh at him and do call him
An idealist lost in time
Fancy's child of endless whim
Nature dances to his rhyme

This poet is a vagabond
His home is with the trees
At natures bosom and far beyond
He sits to pen at ease

He stays awake on starry nights
To gaze at the endless sky
He drifts along the celestial lights
Inspiration for the inward eye

This poet speaks nothing but
The truth and simple things
He flies away from the daily rut
On his colorful poetic wings