A Verse-less Poet

Sometimes when you just lift a pen,
What words come to you right then?
Some words that speak of void and death
Or those that sing of soil and leaves?
Were I to man this pen of mine
I would but write of none but me!
Alas! This pen writes what it wills.
It bleeds and bleeds of words, no more,
Of words that are but ink to me!
There are some letters which can sing
Some songs of songbirds set in spring.
Some more come forth to dance in pairs
Around red-ribboned maypoles! Lord!
Could they but praise one brow of mine
Upon this land of white I see?
Perhaps a word or two about
My lovely hair when swished around?
Oho! I see this hand of mine
Shall write of all! Of all but me!
Who mans these verses blooming from
This inky spout I call my pen?
O nay! Not me! I could not dream
To string these strokes of black on white!
I but deserve to say just this;
Were I to man a pen, for truth,
Lord knows what words would mar this page!
For I am but a layman, yes
I am a verse-less poet.