my words worth, Wordsworth

get me my words worth, Wordsworth—

 

as I amble along from Ambleside, in this early fall

the letters floating and emoting, in a gurgling stream they call

with “o’er’s” and “thee’s” dropped from sycamore trees

their words, the chants on a Cumbrian breeze

and whispers from his Lady of the Lake

tell me now that it’s my chance to take

to the new word trick

 

it seems that long ago the poet’s test

was romantic love and nature’s best

so I catch one here, I snatch one there

at Grasmere, words are everywhere

they aren’t just dusty bugs in my ears

but modern drugs from bygone years

and I scoff at the new-age critic

 

I want to get my words worth, Wordsworth

could your Lakes inspire me, please?

Coleridge calls me cum laudanum

infusing spirit and opium dreams

I want to get my words worth, Wordsworth

I need some lines to write

I want to tell the story

and with imagery, delight

 

this fell is ripe with smells so green

for lover types that love this scene

your black waters hide the history

reflecting lines of mystery

such that I breathe deep to my bones

ascending these steep paths of stones

into the new mist slick

 

old rock walls hold back ancient sheep

ladders climb them with legs that leap

into wet X’s at the top and I stop

to gaze at the District’s color shop

now shades of orange, some flower red

his blades of brown where lambs once fed

is the new growth thick

 

in a daze, I come upon a seagull white

in this pike’s gray and misty light

I throw a rock and almost hit it

but feel relief that I had missed

and squawking, the gull flies off

I’m glad, for it could have been my albatross

and the new words wouldn’t be picked

 

I want to get my words worth, Wordsworth

could your Lakes inspire me, please?

Coleridge calls me cum laudanum

infusing spirit and opium dreams

I want to get my words worth, Wordsworth

I see your sacred wild

I absorb it in my make up

when I taste it for awhile

 

and Coleridge calls cum laudanum

infusing spirit and opium dreams

so I end up with some words worth, Wordsworth

with old words new, it seems

About troysherdahl

A blue-collar bohemian with a penchant for fine words and dirty jeans.
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