Saturday, August 27, 2011

The Wages of Poetry.

“I think all writing is a disease. You can't stop it.”
—William Carlos Williams

Very few poets make a living of poetry
and those that try mostly live in penury.
Frost was a farmer and Byron a Lord
and Shakespeare's plays paid his room and board.

And yet I sit here night after night,
compelled by my nature to write and write.
Why do I sit here and put down on this page
my fears and my hopes, my joy and my rage?

What has been my reward for these hours of toil?
How has rhyming eased my shuffle through this mortal coil?
Not a thin dime, a wooden nickel or a single cent
has poetry ever offered to put torwards my rent.

But every night when I'm tired and the day is done
I sit myself down and write yet another one.
For like taking a breath or the beat of my heart
I write and I write and try to perfect my art.

Sunday, August 21, 2011

In A Kiss...

Love is not found in grand gestures
or complicated schemes

It is found instead in soft glances
and half-remembered dreams

Love is like a feast, a meal for the soul
that satisfies and makes you whole

It fills you, gives you what you hunger for
yet always keeps you wanting more

Love is not a gemstone hard and cold
to be traded, bought and sold

Love is more a flower, a single rose
whose scent softly tickles your nose

Love is not shouted brazenly for all to hear
instead it whispers softly in your ear

Love encourages, builds up and sustains
through all your fears and your pains

Love is a newborn child, barely one day old
whose future is as yet untold

How it will change and turn and grow
only time alone will show

Love is subtle and forever ever changing
responding always to life's rearranging

Yet it is constant as the greatest sea
enduring and lasting all eternity

No scale can hold it, weigh or know it
no man can see it, not one bit

For love can be measured only by this
the passion found in a lover's kiss

Friday, August 19, 2011

So I Must Do What I Must Do

As a flower follows the sun until each day is done
As a Muslim turns with care to his holy city for each prayer
As a stream follows the land 'til it reaches the sea strand
So I must do what I must do and follow, ever follow, you.

As the sun heads to its rest always going from East to West
As the stars shine in the night to ensure your path is right
As the compass will always show the way your path must go
So you are ever and always to me the only guide I see.

As a man must take his breath every moment 'til his death
As a moth must fly to fire throwing itself upon its pyre
As a flower must bloom and grow before time brings it low
So we must, we must be, fated to be each other's destiny.

Sunday, August 14, 2011

As We Were When We Were Young

Just another moment in the Poetry Corner:

In the light just before day
in that moment before the rising sun
announces that night is done
and then chases all of our dreams away,
that is when I see you still
as we were when we were young.

That is when I see your hair
being blown by the soft summer breeze
as you stood by the apple trees
and danced so joyously without a care -
that is how I see you still
as we were when we were young.

If there’s now a touch of frost
hiding in among your bright black tresses
and each smile your age confesses
know you have not one bit of beauty lost
and know that I see you still
as we were when we were young.

Each day is one moment more
I am thankful you get to spend with me.
Each bright day my lips will plea
for one more sweet kiss than the day before.
I’ll always be with you still
as we were when we were young.