I saw it on a winters day as i pretended to be a poet?

The sky is painted
speckled grey on grey,
the masterpiece of some great
unknown artist,
I am sure he is of another world,
will not quite sure?
but you know what I mean!
not much sun,
just light and glimmers of hope
breaking through
the morning dawn,
an illusion,
that entices my mind
for the snow is gently falling,
tenderly blanketing
the yearning earth,
I could have said murky ground?
but my pen refused to co-operate,
watching this scene unfold,
I remember the time,
there were 173 joyous ravens,
playing tag
in the field outside my window,
they choreographed dances,
of jigs,two steps and of course
waltzes,
for all of cordavea,
would perform great ballets and plays,
very seldom seen by the eyes of man,
but enjoyed immensely by
mother nature,
and all those she held close
to her heart,
in her realm of truth and happiness,
yes they play tag my friends!
just watch the sky,
nothing else but the sky,
before you die?
what a sight,
if only you could have seen,
my oh my oh my,
painting pictures in the snow,
where a murder of crows,
cackling the songs of those long gone
into the northern wind,
tapping feet to the northern lights,
dripping ink from feathers
of silken black,
so happy to impress the ravens
where they,
ink,thoughts,stories,poetry,
even the brothers grimm,
sat in amazement at the wonderment,
taking place,
in the field outdside my mind,
I mean window?
all there for the taking,
I must have took 1364,
some of them I send to you,
for I just pretend,
but you are true ,
to the words of the ravens,
that reek havoc within my
erratic mind,
for the poetry is written
upon your soul,
oh how they laughed and danced
a circle around my thoughts,
but still so happy to release there words,
to a fool like me,
they stood high,
so,so high,
on their wire legs,
there leather hoods,
blowing in the December wind,
devoid of the sins of man,
they beckoned in unison to the sky,
please,please,please,
young man,
they cried,
take more take more take more,
even thought at the time
I was 94 yrs young,
with a fading song and a lonely heart,
all I could do was
cry cry cry,
for now that im 51,
seldom are there more than 22,
my friend,
I tell you to no end,
the poetry is still there,
as a matter of fact,
Its everywhere!

I saw it on a winters day as i pretended to be a poet?

Rocky Loder

Joined April 2009

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Artist's Description

simple man…simple words…simple thoughts…

to two great friends here on RB…I tink you will know….maybe even understand…..

on the brink of insanity….

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