A poem most dear to my heart - Terry Fenwick
"A Maker of Pillows"
Were I a fine maker of pillows and lacings
A crafter of needlwork, knoting fine threads.
Of silk and of linen, of wool worsted softly
I'd craft for you, make for you bedding for Queens.
Or were I a maker of post, board and trellis
A bed would I chisel full tree like and more
With motion like figurines, patterned and turning
Each post be a gallery, showing fine things.
Were I a fine jeweler, a shipwright, a tailor
Were I a stone mason, Cathedrals to name.
Were I a wrought ironer, were I a wood wright
Were I a blade'smaker, then I could make truth.
But I am a poet and I am a singer,
A dancer, a seer, who studies dead Sage.
And I have but one book in which I am writing
A journal of life as is viewed from my cell.
A room where the iron bound doors are all girded
A place where the granite blocked windows are hung.
... and I a poor scratcher who, pained and with error,
Work heavy while pilgrimmed for sense in my rime.
As poet, a rimer of feelings and dreaming,
A searcher for anything Fair, True or Good
Know all of my watching, remembrance of tellings
Can just and can only point slightly the way.
For you are the wonder, the artist of living
The creature who husbands both life and its hope.
For you are the Herald and you are the Minstrel.
Sing Healer who messages all else to grow.
* Make me a pillow of lace and of ribbon.
* Build me a tower with stone and with iron.
* Knot me an armor and bring me a chalice
Put ear to my heart and let Death ne'er prevail.
* could be done as an audible breath.
Inspired by a note from one of my readers, Thank you,
My friend wrote this as I always said, when anyone said something I loved that
touched my heart, that I would want it in needlepoint on a pillow and would carry
it around close to my breast.