The Poet Dreams

THE POET DREAMS
By PoeticMeditations

In the quiet, early morning hours
Before the day breaks into light
Secrets whispered in shadowed bowers
Imagination now takes flight.

When reality becomes a dream
And dreams become reality
Flowing gently in an endless stream
A sea of possibility.

To ponder, to marvel, and to muse
Into words distill pure essence
With this essence, the soul infuse
Delighting in the Nine-fold presence.

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The Eye of the Beholder

THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER
By PoeticMeditations

It seems I am but one of few
Who sees the beauty of this rose.
Pure light reflected in the dew,
Her petals lie in graceful folds.

The Queen of Blooms in my garden.
Of all, this one to love I choose.
Become now my tender warden.
My freedom I so gladly lose.

Will cherish all my fleeting days
This rose which now belongs to me.
To praise her beauty in these lays.
Though chained, my heart is now set free.

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The Romantic Redux

THE ROMANTIC REDUX
By PoeticMeditations

Give me the romance with all its lies,
Roses and the scent of fleur-de-lys,
Even pure lust lurking in disguise.
For what would life be without love?

What else is this life worth living for?
Making money or feeding the poor
Or watching the sunset from the shore?
For what would life be without love?

To die for fame or even wealth,
To give everything in search of health,
To live on an island somewhere south.
For what would life be without love?

So to me give love with all its pain,
Its bright sunshine and its sullen rain,
Its heartache and unrepentant stain.
For what would life be without love?

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The Poet’s Plight

THE POET’S PLIGHT
By PoeticMeditations

Alas, it seems I am one of few
Who knows the secrets of the rose,
The lambent light in a drop of dew,
The mysteries of moonlit snows.

Hears the whispered music of the spheres,
The songs of mountains and of trees,
Tastes the ambrosia of bitter tears
Sweet as the nectar of the bees.

Smells the fragrant, heady sunlit field,
The rain-washed scent of morning skies,
Reaps the fruitful bounty that they yield:
True knowledge of the sinner wise.

Alas, a few will dare to listen
To these songs of love and sorrow;
Translucent drops that shine and glisten,
Vanishing upon the morrow.

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Jupiter Through the Kitchen Window

JUPITER THROUGH THE KITCHEN WINDOW
By PoeticMeditations

Through the open kitchen window one early morn,
My gaze beheld an unwavering point of light,
Above the treetops dark, before mankind was born.
Jupiter! Shining in the waning sea of night.

Its radiant beam traversing both time and space,
Making its grand appearance in the morning sky
To look down upon this transient human race,
Whose own brief, feeble light will go out with a sigh.

Of each generation, fleeting and ignoble;
Silent witness to all our follies and foibles.

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The Cynic of Love

THE CYNIC OF LOVE
By PoeticMeditations

The phrase, “All you need is love,” is nothing but a lie;
Without air, food or water, we would all simply die.
It’s a chemical response to something that we like.
Attractive faces cause our brain’s dopamine to spike.
Romance is the word used in place of copulation;
A biological urge to increase the population.

It’s money, not love, that really makes the world go ’round.
Investing in stocks and bonds is financially sound.
Interest in the principle is what you can obtain.
Love’s investment results in nothing but grief and pain;
A mere commodity to make money anyway.
Ask any0ne who’s gotten married how much they had to pay.

For those who can’t find love, poor beggars can’t be choosers.
In the game of love, we all end up being losers.
The one that got away? It’s probably for the best.
Plenty of fish in the sea that look like all the rest.
Love is not the end-all/be-all that it seems to be.
I prefer the romance and the dream of the wide, open sea.

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The Songbird Seller Along the Quay

THE SONGBIRD SELLER ALONG THE QUAY
By PoeticMeditations

Every morning I pass  by her along the quay,
Beside a table stacked with small wooden cages,
Each holding a songbird brightly chirping away,
Amidst the booksellers scrabbling for their wages,
Sitting erect with her soft hands placed in her lap.
In the mornings, “Bonjour,” in the evenings “Bonsoir.”

Draped around her thin shoulders a worn, woolen wrap.
In an angelic voice from some heavenly choir,
Singing an aria, the sweet sound crystalline,
Beautiful like one of the songs of her caged birds,
Smooth and delicate like a rich, velvety wine.
But I must be on my way to peddle my words.

One morning I pass by but she’s nowhere to be seen.
A young man selling jewelry stands now in her place.
Surprised that in my heart I feel her loss so keen,
Full of tender sadness, yet a smile on my face.
Gone somewhere the songbird seller along the quay,
I believe to her sweet dreams she has flown away.

 

(PoeticMeditations © 2017. All rights reserved.)

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