Bells that don't ring, throw down the pail
When mining thoughts, how deafening the ring
We search the walls of silence for a vein
A golden verse to strum on soft heart strings
To touch someone and stake a poet's claim
We chip away, in rubble, as we pick
It falls as wads of paper on the floor
When suddenly a glowing candlewick
We've struck the mother lode of metaphors
And as the liquid gold flows through the pen
In words of love and matters of the heart
The muse begins to tingle deep within
While he assays the worth of this new art
These nuggets that we find could be for sale
If bells are ringing, don't throw down the pail.
Daniel Turner is 60 years old and lives in Arkansas. He has been writing poetry for approximately 40 years. He loves animals and all things having to do with nature. Now retired, he has traveled over 3 million miles as a long-haul truck driver, worked in the oil fields of Texas and on the Mississippi River on a tow boat. He loves to read and watch old black and white movies.