Reflections – noblethemes

How Does the Poet Explain?

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.

Reflections of Beauty

Something simple, something bright, like a rose;
Something light and very delicate to one’s sight;
Something so refreshing meshing myriad colors;
Something stunningly majestic and undomestic;
Something quite vast on which to cast your sight;
All beautiful yet only dutiful reflections of Beauty
Unseen, untouched but flowing and ever glowing
In what is seen and has been so since time began;
Beauty showers the world from her great bowers,
Yet does not show her face in the pace of this life,
But she’s unceasing in releasing her magnificence
For all to enjoy and praise to raise high our spirits;
Yes, all her reflections are icons of her perfection

What Is Life Worth?

Is life but only the blade of grass that passes so quickly?
Or is there an invaluable worth from the day of birth?
Pages turn with age and the old sage reads every line,
And has what is written been smitten with lies or love,
Or more likely both upon torn pages since he was born;
And doubtless there have been tears through the years,
And smiles and laughter along the miles of pilgrimage,
But perhaps he sees in his time an image of villeinage;
Ah! But is life more than borrowed time in rented space?
Has his place been marked only by the chime of clock?
And when cock crows on that final morning,
Shall it be a warm welcome or dire warning?
Will an eternal sun rise as an heavenly prize,
Or will that bright light shine as an unwelcome surprise?
Is life but only the blade of grass that passes so quickly?
Or is there an invaluable worth from the day of birth?
To be lived fully and freely rather than in chains of pain?
What does the author write on pages for the sage to read?
Indeed, what is his life worth from the first day of birth?

Note: Originally published in November 2016, now republished for the consideration and enjoyment of new reader-followers. Blessings to one and all!

Time: Friend or Foe? (Free Verse)

Sometimes time seems to fly by so very quickly,
And you wonder where the moments have gone
And what you have really done
Since you last looked at a clock;
And it stuns you to realize how the minutes pass
Without your capturing them to do something . . .
Yet time can seem so slow when you are working;
You wonder if the minutes have turned to hours –
‘Tempus fugit’ is not always the case in this life –
But when time does fly by you often want to stop
And rewind the clock to retake those lost minutes
But you cannot . . . You can only move forward . . .
Ever forward with time, whether so fast (or slow)
Time: Do you have her, or does she have you???

After the Storm

The sun came shining brilliantly after the storm,
Sharp, warm rays spreading out across the sky,
And the birds are singing yet again and they fly
So freely, at liberty, and reconstruction follows
Upon the heels of destruction in nature’s flow;
Reconstruction like resurrection follows death,
And the wind blows ever gently now to endow
Earth with sweet scent of rain on grass ‘n trees,
And how else should it be? This is life writ large
In the discharge of ever-winding cycles of living
And reminds us that there are storms, to be sure,
But always the sun behind the ominous clouds,
Always light so bright to overcome the darkness;
Indeed, the sun did come shining after this storm
. . . after every storm, after each and every storm!