Quest

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Quest

Each day a kind and wise old man

sat for hours on his favored bench

resting on a round park in the middle

of a quiet, quaint, small, town square.

 

Some traveled from far and near,

seeking knowledge he imparted.

Never a question fell unanswered

despite so many learned attempts.

 

His repute was known coast to coast,

the old man who no man could best.

But this crisp, fall day he’d see a test

presented by a boy on a pure quest.

 

“Sir, if I may ask but one tiny thing

because I know you’ll tell me how

when no one else has been able to

lead me to where they can be found.”

 

Young man, I’ll do as you wish, but

what you want seems difficult to me.

Surely, “how” and “where” make two

questions. So explain what you mean.

 

“Kind sir, I wish to be a poet but

don’t know how or where to find

correct words to write, somehow.

Can you assist me along the way?”

 

Rubbing the stubble on his chin,

the old man smiled, knowing his

record was secure, and after pause,

the requested information began.

 

The words you seek are easily found

but difficult to see laying all around.

On a rock, under that tree, in flowers

within your dreams, just above head

 

or way down below the salty brine,

floating on a breeze, in Mom’s smile,

for every leaf that hits earth, poems

spring forth, waiting to fill your pen.

 

Think of what I’ve said and look about.

With fresh eyes and an unclouded mind,

the poems will come from the inside out.

“Thank you kindly, sir, I’ll be on my way.”

Copyright © 2016 Ron Shaw

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