KNOCKEMSTIFF POET
By: Wayne Brown
Remember the man from Knockemstiff?
The poetry that he wrote
He could write of the beauty of a butterfly
Or a sharp blade slicing your throat
He was eccentric; sexy, a bit crusty; all heart
His poetry was his muse
Once you found his fabric of woven words
It was hard to turn them loose
Inspiration was never his intended way
His poetry was his relief
You could take it any way you liked
Was certainly his belief
He tired of all the rules; violation of terms
His poetry meant what it mentioned
He would not be shaped by their dislikes
Art has its intentions
So Charlie packed it up and went his way
His poetic spirit obtuse
And now we no longer hear his voice
Or the inspiration of his muse
There’s a void here in Hubville
Where CC’s poetry did shine
His loyal followers so miss his wordplay
Searching the words of each line
Those who follow verse miss his presence here
His poetic flowing rift
Few will ever forget the wondrous verses
Of the man from Knockemstiff
We miss ya, Charlie.
©Copyright WBrown2011. All Rights Reserved
