A FOND FAREWELL TO AUTUMN DAYS
The fruit hangs withered on the vine
Verdant grass now brown and brittle
Discarded leaves lay strewn all around
Gathered grapes transforming into wine.
A fond farewell to autumn days
Filled with shimmering, golden light
Too soon your glories have all faded
Gone your harvest bounty of delight.
Birds have fled seeking warmer climes
Asleep lie trees as if in death
Tucked in their beds for a long night’s rest
Each kissed goodnight by winter’s icy breath.
THE INADEQUACY OF WORDS
If I had the skill of an artist,
I would paint your visage every day
Photograph your lovely image
Sculpt your exquisite form in clay.
Alas, I am only a poet
Who must use these ordinary words
Describe your eyes with similes
Your eloquence with metaphors.
Their inadequacy is revealed –
Next to your radiance they grow pale
In capturing your loveliness,
I find mere words will always fail.
The steady ticking of the clock
Cadence of a relentless march
Each fleeting moment rushes by
Man’s arrogance does it mock.
Phases of the Moon wax and wane
Seasons pass in ordered sequence
The years slip by without a sound
Man’s achievements – all in vain.
Endless cycles of birth and death
The ocean’s ceaseless ebb and flow
The Sun will rise before it sets
Man’s life is but a mere breath.
Is it possible for love to change to hate,
So that what once was dearly loved now is loathed?
A question for philosophical debate.
To be in love – what dark future does it bode
When what the heart so adored can now disdain?
As if all had been a grand delusion
Leaving a bitter aftertaste to remain
After awakening from love’s illusion.
If so, can hate be changed into love so sweet?
Then let this hateful heart into love amend
Lead into gold – an alcheminical feat
Transform this scornful heart – let it love again.
A POET OF NO RENOWN
I am a poet of no renown
A mere potter of common words
Deep in love with their taste and sound
The sweet harmony of their chords.
Not fleeting fame is what I seek
My name obscure forever be
I climb not high to reach its peak
In words alone my soul is free.
There are no riches to be made
My reward is just one alone
For which I labor night and day:
The creation of a poem.
Posted in literature, Poetry
THE TREES ARE SLOWLY WAKING
The trees are slowly waking
From their deep, dormant sleep
Stretching up stiff, barren arms
With spring’s promises to keep.
Soon tender buds will appear
All will turn to leafy green
Offer shelter from the sun
Shady trunks against to lean.
Full will be their canopies
Spread out wide against the sky
Swaying in the gentle breeze
Filled with the lark’s joyous cry.
Leaves will blaze with autumn’s colors
At winter’s touch drop one by one
Soon to fade in quiet slumber
To dream of summer’s blazing sun.