The Bard He looked so like a ghost one from out of the past - rough-shod laborer�s garments, eyes with an Irish cast. Grubby in his striped clothing; more than one day�s mats of hair - a beard just like Abe Lincoln�s his posture showing signs of wear... A dirty, tired man he was the dust of toil, his aura: earth. Looking as a spirit out of place yet owning such poetic worth... He could have been the engineer of a train from long ago; Traversing, and learning the hills and plains what stories he would know! He might have been a miner of feed for that horse which gobbles coal; spending days within the close and darkened depths - hours to chip away or build his soul. A coarse and common man is he yet a poet all the same - and I never heard a single verse from him, nor ever learned his name. But as he ambled into The Coffee Scene I thought: he�s not from this time. I�m hoping that wraith will reappear and read to us a haunting rhyme... � K.E.Cline; May 18, 1997 (for the �biker poet� at The Coffee Scene, Fayetteville, NC) |