How does the poet adequately explain his poetry
Without much pain, at the risk of sounding insane?
If the poet could explain her melodic words
Flowing serenely in rhyme and fine rhythm,
Then she may as well have written in prose
Rather than posing as a poet, you know it?
Poetry is an esoteric world of its own
Where the seeds of thought are sown
To be shown in an exquisite garden
Of variegation of creative creation,
Not in straight farm-like rows to plow,
So how, O how, does the poet now explain . . .
Poetry is potently mysterious
While making mystical sense
To the avid, passionate lover of metrical verse,
And it’s nothing to rehearse,
But to engage and fascinate!
It is to attract and grip and rivet the very heart,
But play no part in essays and academic articles!
Indeed, how does the poet amply explain his poetry
Without much pain, at the risk of sounding insane?
No! Vain is the task of trying and without any gain!
Note: First published in early November 2016, now republished due to some renewed interest as well as for the enjoyment (and edification?) of new reader-followers.
Threads woven together to form a beautiful tapestry,
Like streams flowing together into one majestic river,
Like myriad colors brushed on the canvas is your life
At the hand of the Artisan, dear child; you are beauty
An icon of Beauty still being sculpted so statuesque,
So fret not the unfinished work; it will be completed;
You’re an amazing creation and yet still being created
By the Hand that spread the moon ‘n stars in the sky;
You are unique and lovely, yet still an unfinished art,
But when the last note is put you will be a symphony
Sung in the heavens glorious, sung by choirs of angels!
Note: First published in January of this year, offered again now due to some renewed interest as well as for the reading pleasure (and hopefully inspiration) of new followers of this blog … and anyone else who happens to drop in. Blessings to one and all!
Hast thou bequeathed thy love to another?
Perchance given thy heart to my brother?
And wouldst thou be so cruel as to leave me
Forsaken of all love as if dead to thee?
Oh, how high and haughty thou hast become
To be so naughty to leave me thus lonesome!
May the gods smile upon this wretched soul,
And Panacea apply her balm to fill this hole
Thou hast left in mine own heart torn apart!
Ah! The game of romance is such deadly art,
And I not an artist be, so thou must see
What great extent is thine own cruelty;
Yet shall ye turn away thine eye from me
For the sake of playing harlot so shamelessly?
Note: This is my own paltry attempt at Shakespearean sonnet, being 14 lines with 10 syllables per most lines… Try it at least once, right?
Poetry may be a masterpiece of the heart torn apart,
Or the disconsolate word flow from a hole in the soul,
Or may be the sudden eruption of happy presumption;
She may be the lover’s cover in nearly numinous hover,
Or the sad ‘goodbye’ without really explaining why . . .
Poetry may come from the gut of a man caught in a rut,
Or the revelation of feelings long held in captivation,
Or may be exaltation of the contemplation of nature,
Or she may raise the hymn of otherwise silent praise;
Poetry may be sitting at a bar or wishing upon a star,
But above all, and with whatever else might be said,
She is testimony to the elasticity of the human psyche,
And in the end, poetry simply is . . .
Note: Inspired by an article written by Ken Craft kindly shared by Robert Okaji
As muses conspire to inspire poets and artisans,
Wraiths gather around the gateway of the soul
To emasculate all creativity, to frustrate the pen
Or brush, opening up the floodgate of confusion
To fixate some poor soul on some senseless sight
Or sound ‘n none that’s worth a pound of manure
And all to secure his attention on anything at all
But the intention to create; and thus making him
Into a kind of artistic reprobate who then hates
What he’s not done because he’s taken the bait
Of unseen creatures who only satiate themselves
By stilling the mind and killing all true creativity;
But the good muses pay the price and still play
On numinous harps to sharpen the wit of artistry,
Praying he will dive into the sea of his own soul
And be what he was meant to be by taking hold
Of pen or brush to begin to bring into our reality
What was not before — lyrical poem to be read,
Song to be sung, picture to be admired and more
To heal the hearts of sore humanity in its insanity;
To bring peace to the fires of funeral pyres and
To send love from above around the round world;
To be an artisan fulfilling his most high calling!
Note: First published in September 2016, now slightly revised and republished for the enjoyment (and perhaps edification) of new reader-followers. Blessings to one and all!
There was calm neath the palm tree, complete serenity,
But then you blew through in bending wind, transcending,
Offering no salaam, only aplomb at your sudden arrival;
Then you did flow like the tidal wave, but… where now?
After such glorious flow of exciting show, you’ve only left…
Line upon line so finely interwoven
And breathed across the Cosmos
Into heart sifted and adrift alone
But not made of stone in flesh
And bone, but rather radiant
And supple in rhyme and rhythm
With the multiverse of your poem
But there is the grander Poem interwoven in the Universe
To nurse hearts and souls that ne’er depart from the path
Of fine poetry in potency in probity of soul so knowingly
Open to Truth of Love that never fades in blight of night;
Poetry of Life
Note: First published in mid-June 2016, now republished (again) due to some rather unexpected renewed interest as well as for the enjoyment of new reader-followers. I would now count this as, perhaps, one of my best offerings. Blessings to one and all!
Sometimes you get hit hard ‘n just feel like crying,
And sometimes even lying in bed hurts your head;
Sometimes you feel like curling up and just dying,
And sighing isn’t enough when you’re truly trying
To do your finest to fight through another life test
When you feel like a unwanted guest in the world
But you stand as tall as you can and give it your all
Even though it seems nobody really understands
And all you get in return are more hard demands
And so you wonder what to do, options too few,
But then you spy pen, pencil, or brush and hush,
For there they all are, instruments for your scars
To turn your pain into some kind of gain yet again
And in turn to bless others and maybe to impress
Something upon their minds and souls to unbind
Them from their own shackles with seeds sown
From your very own life blood . . .
You Are an Artisan
Shadows walk with us, sometimes numerous
And often unnoticed, sometimes very clearly,
Sometimes barely visible, sometimes friendly,
Sometimes quite ominous, but always present
Sometimes these shadows come from the past,
Sometimes these shadows forebode the future,
Sometimes these shadows are merely our own,
Sometimes these shadows come from another
Shadows can haunt us and taunt our very souls,
And sometimes strike a cautionary note to us,
But oftentimes they come to call us to recollect
Something long forgotten, before we were born
Yes, the very Ages themselves cast long shadows
That walk with and talk to us, if we see and hear,
And they bespeak the imperfect story of humans,
And they bespeak the imperfect story of our own
Sometimes these shadows come from hell’s pit,
Sometimes these shadows come from heaven,
Sometimes these shadows invoke much terror,
Sometimes these shadows provoke much peace
But always these shadows in our shadow land;
Shadows walk with us . . . yes, ever the shadows
Note: I would like to dedicate this poem especially to my fellow-blogger and friend, Tony Single who, like all artisans (including yours truly), must be a bit of a shadow-walker. Blessings to one and all!
Wash away my stains
With pen and ink is great gain
Redemption no strain
My sins on paper
Misdeeds become like vapor
In poem faults taper
I write them away
Saying what I have to say
And without dismay