rhyme

The Lotus Eaters (revised)

we are become as lotus eaters
in which our suffered graces
are numbed to true sensation,
force fed with base esthesis.
Imprisoned by unreal desires
blind to the world around
behind walls of false design
shackled hostage bound.
Dare we look at all beyond
that which is placed before us
for in searching is release
from the bland anonymous.

We are no longer who we were
devolved as much as lost today
where once the world had bloomed with sweet perfume
here now the lotus eaters play.

First Breaths


In choral turns their pleas are heard
the weary finch, the proud blackbird
round robin bold, shy hatch and hen
a starling insecure, and wren
from song to song and tree to tree
no ear can match this symphony
nor pen, nor pipe or soft tapped string
could hope to vie with feathered things.

Unfinished Birdsong

the throstle wakes
as so must I it seems
her song invades
yet not disturbs my dreams
there may be clouds
uncertain in the dawn
yet the song thrush
seems to minds not
and greets the coming morn,
but will her lover
duet to her cries
soulful from the barest trees
beneath these youngest skies
or has the night before them
driven death’s dark veil
between her plaintive arias
sung sweet to no avail.

twelve lines

I walked through purple heathers wild
their heads washed fresh with dew
and in their perfumed boudoir
I wrote this song for you
I sang it as the sun gave way
to fogs upon the glen
and even o’er the mists of time
I’ll sing it now and then
whenever heathers breathe the air
and sigh their last bouquet
my thoughts within these simple words
is all I’ll have left to say.

L’épitaphe de l’hiver

the winter weeps its last
yet it is plain to see
its former youth is passed
and ready to sleep is he
who but short days ago
had such teeth and claw
to rip the world with snow
but seeks to hunt no more

the tears of ice have dried
with spring’s new born ascent
and days of darkness die
though not their vowed intent
to someday walk again
and hold reign o’er the earth
to waste this world of men
in bitter death’s rebirth.

The Nightbird

into the darkest night it seemed
I dreamt a bird of purest verse
and that she was all but a dream
is why she was my sorest curse
for true this bird of reverie
would songs to me in sleep relay
but come the morn’ her poetry
would be lost forever to the day,
thus to the muses do I pray
that this nightbird’s song will stay
with me when my senses rise
and not to dawning sun demise.