The Uninspired Day

dim is this next day revealed
bone grey hued in the half light
will its fertile promise be revealed
or lost last to impotent night
the quiet skies bear witness not
to what the hours ahead may bring
and as I dwell upon this thought
from naked trees a small bird sings,
her hopeful, pleading sweet refrains
raise the maudlin heaven’s still
so perhaps it’s not in vain
to wait upon this next day’s will.

Mad Poet?

Oh! for the madness of John Clare
to hear the angels on the air
and the music of their wings
to scribe the poetry they sing.

I yearn for blessed insanity
lost Edens in the world to see
to picture them in rhythm’d rhymes
and paint them with such saintly lines.

what fear do passing seasons hold
when such stories have been told
of beauty’s scars upon the earth
and how from death comes rebirth.

Oh! for the madness of John Clare
to mark the sacred everywhere
despite dark Hell’s corrupt intent
such souls define the heaven sent.