THE NEW BOHEMIANS
We are the New Bohemians, the artists and the poets
Seekers of truth and beauty in this vulgar world
Poverty and suffering are all we have to show for it
In relentless quest for that rare and priceless pearl.
Disdaining filthy lucre and scorning chasing after fame
Devoting our lives to the creation of beauty
Making art that inspires to live life on a higher plane
Sacrificing all to our artistic duty.
Night and day, after elusive beauty we labor and strive
Armed only with brush or pen, our weapons of choice
Seeking to add purpose and meaning for why we are alive
Bravely we fight and struggle to give truth a voice.
To all our fellow New Bohemians – keep the faith!
AULD LANG SYNE
Old acquaintances may have been forgotten
But our forgetting may be all for the best
The waning old the new has now begotten
As Father Time lays down to his final rest.
With dancing and music, we welcome in the new
Don gay apparel – with manic glee we shout
Pop open champagne hoping to drown our fear
That behind the new, death is lurking about.
When tolls the bell, couples embrace for a kiss
As we bid a fond farewell to all that’s past
But our ignorance may still indeed be bliss
Who knows if this newborn year will be our last?
Did you watch me like I watch my son
Remembering what it was like to once be young
As he swings beneath a leafy elm
Wond’ring if he will inherit his father’s realm
What the cruel fates have in store for him
Will he be haunted by all his father’s sins
Seek his fortune in a distant land
Find true love and then wed some fair maiden’s hand?
Myself, we know what I have become:
A poor poet who was once his father’ son.
THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS
Peering through the looking glass
Glimpses seen through gauzy veil
At what lies a breath beyond.
A hint of Spring’s verdant grass
A wandering stream through a dale
Placid surface of a pond.
A dark, distant craggy mass
On the sea, a windblown sail
Silence deep hangs all around.
Traveler on a mountain pass
Sunlight streams and storms travail
Headed towards the Great Beyond.
Like a sudden flash of lightning on a cloudless day
I beheld an angelic being passing by my way
Fair of form with hair of gold cascading ’round her face
Heavy-lidded eyes of green, a smile full of grace
If I were an artist, I would capture her in paint
Her exquisite outer beauty and her inner saint
If I were a musician, I’d use voice, notes, and chords
But, alas, I am a poet who must use mere words
To try to capture this heaven-sent epiphany
This vision of loveliness for all eternity.
FAREWELL TO THE NIGHT
Farewell to the night as dawn begins to break
For all too soon it has quickly run its course
To home, lovers beneath shadowed trees must make
The cutting pang of parting their one remorse.
Come night when lovers meet in darkened bowers
Pledge their love and seal it with honeyed kisses
The dew-wet air sweetly scents the stolen hours
With caresses, on the heart write tender missives.
While the rest of the world lies asleep abed
All is quiet save a whisper or a sigh
In tight embrace, lovers seek as if to wed
Above, the stars bear silent witness from on high.
For lovers, parting is indeed sweet sorrow
Soon, heartbreak the waning darkness will portend
To suffer the empty hours of the morrow
And endure the day till night comes ’round again.
A CUP OF WINE
We drink to dull the pain of our existence
Escape the grind of earning our daily bread
Our labors are rewarded with mere pittance
At night, around the edges we sense the dread.
A cup of wine to help forget our sorrows
For little joy is left in living this life
Yesterday, today, and for all tomorrows
So full of bitter regret, remorse, and strife.
No longer do we sing of our defiance
No longer do we rage ‘gainst the dying light*
Beauty has been replaced by pragmatic science
Imagination no longer takes its flight.
Let us embrace the pain of our existence
If we feel, it means that we are still alive
Let us stand up and fight in our resistence
After truth, love, and beauty fully strive.
*from “Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night” by Dylan Thomas
Posted in literature, Poetry