Call it being clever, call it skill or call it wit –
he had a way of picking words that always seemed to fit.

He started writing stories, then progressed to rhyme and verse
with words that sparked emotion – some for better, some for worse.

Declared a ‘natural poet’, since he had no dossier –
his writing lacked the polish that a scholar might portray.

He had no formal training, used his own inherent style
to capture tragic moments – or the ones that make you smile.

His grammar wasn’t perfect, punctuation not the best,
and judging by his structure – never took a writing test.

But readers seldom criticized his aspirant technique,
as he conjured raw emotion using words of common speak.

He wrote about adventures, both on land and out at sea,
a search for gold in arctic-cold and captives being freed.

A southern fight, a solo flight, a lady’s final tour –
a love beset by Internet and loss without a cure.

His special gift was known to lift the hearts of those in pain –
a way to make a sunny day from one of clouds and rain.

When feeling melancholy, he could take away the moon –
turned happiness to sorrow – very few would be immune.

He took the time to craft each line for maximum appeal –
an exposé – a raw display of how he’s prone to feel.

The poet was an amateur – he didn’t seek acclaim –
he had no thoughts of grandeur and no appetite for fame.

His works of art were à la carte – available for free,
he sought no compensation nor a trophy to decree.

The man was just a poet with a knack for rhyme and verse
who loved to spark emotion – some for better, some for worse.