Colin F. Jones

LILRIPPLE

If words do hurt and you are pained,
By those that I have written,
Then I regret being unrestrained,
That by them you were smitten.
Impulsive words are what I write,
I seldom plan and structure,
Some appear as fond delight,
But others provoke conjecture.
But alas I could not bear the thought,
That you think I am insulting,
For then my truth is somehow naught,
With regretful thoughts resulting.
Fair thou art, and always true,
Whether advising or consulting.

I need to feed off other folk,
‘Tis the way this poet writes,
Thus some comment I oft provoke,
Which angers or delights.
I never mean to hurt nor harm,
For I plan no such event,
I’m always in myself quite calm,
Though another may anger vent
‘Tis all I do I write and write,
Like a vampire thirsting blood,
I seek thee not to foul and fight,
But to extract all that is good.
They all retreat who know my plight,
As perhaps, I think they should.

I draw you out; provoke your thought,
That you express in many a way;
Some in my impulsive traps are caught,
Some like the trap and stay.
I record responses ere they reply,
I am always ready for what they say,
But sometimes I do not let go by,
Things I should not ere delay.
For I am just a poet and no more,
Than what my friends think of me,
Assembled by peaceful time and war,
With a deep longing to be free.
And what is mine is mine alone,
And I suffer in being me.

I make no claims, though ‘tis said
By many that I do,
But spite does not follow me to bed,
For I know what is really true.
To poke a viper in the eye,
Will not divert his lightning strike,
And some from their own poison die,
And fall off their wobbly bike.
I am myself, myself alas,
Nearing the end of this one claim,
For everything I say will pass,
And the grave will swallow my name.
‘Tis true enough that it matters not
If I am whole or lame.