Poets Live Forever In Ice

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Something I made up as I went with a common theme in mind. It is not a theme restricted to bards and poets. But they do serve as the perfect example.

Submitted: June 03, 2013

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Submitted: June 03, 2013



What shall we say

For the wandering poet?

Shall we pat his back,

Start to clap,

And make his words immortal in song?

But that is what shall be.

It is not his priority

To tease our children’s children

With idle thoughts of the fire.

God willing, they will not know

Of God forsaken cold.

Just as we know naught

Of poor poet’s lot.


The maiden’s bed is warm,

If her heart is taken with ice.

And the lover between her sheets

Gives not a trice.

But as the fire warmed her bones,

Dear poet saved her from all her woes.

And naught but one beguiling wink

Was payment for poet’s poeting.

Her heart and body were warm

As the day grew old.

But Poet cradled not a soul

As his hands grew cold.


The elders heard his words

And praised his talent oft.

But nere was any gold

Ever tossed aloft.

Purse bare as his belly,

Poet crawled into bed.

He could not sleep for the snoring

Of a belly not fed.

And the youth would come

And sit at his feet.

They came for rhymes and clever words.

While they idoled the skin

They missed the meat.

His warnings fell on deafened ears,

And one by one, they beheld his fears,

And to no surprise, they became his tears.


I saw him last night

Watching the flames.

His pen in hand,

But naught on paper.

And as I sat, he sang from his heart.


What good is a poet

When summer is come?

When the hearth is wet

And there’s aught to be done?

Can he speak to the fields

And make the harvest rise?

Can he cure the meat

With his pitiful cries?

Can he sing to cattle

And make the milk sweeter?

What man will hear him

When there’s family to feed?

What maid will have him

When there’s bread to knead?

Aught but a few festivals await his call.

None stay inside

When the ice begins to thaw.


Winter is the bard’s season

If only for one reason.

The heart will die

Without his cry.

Though the hearth be hot

The soul may not.

Bread alone

Turns hearts to stone.

Though wine be sweet

It will not meet

With a bard’s sweet song.


They will not hear a poet

When the flame dies out.

“So why, sir, do you stay only to play to cobwebs?”

Why, sir, winter is not just a season.

It is a season of the heart

As it is a season of the earth.

As long as hearts may feel cold,

I’ll nere grow old.

Although immortality is a lonely thing.
I will greet these snowflakes

With a smile and a song.

© Copyright 2019 James Troxler. All rights reserved.

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