"Poems from the Quill" is where I place current works that don't fall into other collections. It is here you will find obscure poems that range from constraint to free-verse. I began this collection as a contest entry, years ago, for what was then t...
Is death's life stance? Is trickery man's antidote?
Crows call, the fox romps, while the writers
Compose sagas to repay a debt to best the censors,
In anytime the word of man runs through the thistle,
And treads over the posh who hid his bristle―
He is my type, the concise writer of wit,
He doesn't dangle carrots using an enticer stick,
He tags the heavens with words a dangle,
And plucks his cherries from seasoned babble.
AN: This poem began in a dream this morning. In the dream I am reading a tome I've written a book on how to write poetry, and I reading it to a former teacher. I get in a hurry and skip over one poem and he makes me go back and read it. "I want you to read this one to me." So, I stop and read it to him. When I am finished my Bi-Pap machine shuts off, but the electricity is on, I get the point, my muse is saying write this down, and "The Perfect Poet" is the result. I've never heard of the Poet Sam Menashe (b. 1925 d. 2011), but this work has led me to him, so in his memory I dedicate this poem. PIP (Power In Poetry), Olan
