O For a Muse of Maize, to Sing nature
A Promise, Sapphire Notes of Blue to be
Repaid with Words so old and yet so new.
Are you the silver, pewter haired Patron
Of Song that lends out Lyrics laden Gold?
Is yours the Hand that launch’d a thousand Ships?
A dying Hearth, the withering of
A Line, the Leonine bind and confined.
Let them Run a wild a poet’s ponderings
Perchance to pounce upon the page beside
A Wonder Writ : To bee or not to bee?
Your Honey I crave and Laurel and Stave!
Respire in me a Voice, and vessel it
Aboard your Fellow ship, to never Strand
Or dry and die ashore, but let it Drift
And Try verse on a Sea of Poetry.
— Schop
* Helen Zell