Of the Singer

I’ve asked the midday morn,
to describe her voice to me,
and asked the garden thorns,
to sprout words as a reprieve.

I’ve begged the moonlit glow,
to paint her sound upon the earth,
just as I, twenty years ago,
searched for beauty in short verse.

Now, I am old and much do know -
and many lines I have amassed,
But how could one describe a rose,
to a rose, if ever it should ask?

There are no words, just a soft deed -
to show the rose itself.

For even roses could not find the words,
to describe the words they felt.

Letter to America, YEAR 2045

At night when the call is done,

and the muezzin stops to pray,

and dark clouds have just begun,

to stretch out on their way,

I open up a book of mine,

an old tome of my home.

and mime the title with a sigh,

“Europe: All that we have known”…
-

I read about those bygone days,

when our men were strong and true,

when Europe ruled the land and waves,

and was filled with babies too.

I leaf through the wars and pain -

see the God who brought us through -

and all the freedoms we did gain,

from the words which Locke first drew.
-

Oh, how did we come to this?

Europe, the strong, the bold, the brave?

Oh, what sins did we commit,

to lead ourselves upon this way?

Was it doubt? Or our belief

that nothing much was true?

And why did men choose to leave,

every truth they ever knew?

-

Was it hubris, was it pride?

Was it lust, or was it greed?

And why, oh why, did we decide,

to kill our babies in their sleep?

-

And who could have ever thought,

after all we’d gained and wrought,

that our grave would be marked,

by a crescent – not a cross?
-

America, We are done. We are done!

So when this poem’s through,

please pray for us in Europe…

-

We once prayed for you.

Three Things

God made whispers, songs, and rhyme,
to ease the pain of sordid news,
to force harsh words out of line,
and to a softer, fluid tune.

Well, my voice has been poor since a lad,
the pitch so often slips and falls -
and to whisper words, whether good, or bad,
makes no sense to me at all.

So if from these two, I am recused,
then the third is left, as by design.
So sit my friend, for I bear bad news.
I pray you hear a rhyme.

The Poet

I’m no poet though I play,
With words, ideas, and,
The rhymes of future days,
Which are not yet in my hand.

For love is the poem of life,
All else is mere prose,
I’m no poet though I write,
As love I’ve never known.

But soon I shall find the time,
Past the prose: short; succinct:
And on the day I find the rhyme,
Then the poet you will see.

The Poetess

If Fate gives rhyme to decree,
that love is love indeed,
then blessed I am and blessed I’ll be,
for we were always meant to be.

How the words just fall along,
and even though I may take one,
away, the rhyme still belongs,
and no harm is truly done.

Oh, I stand among the blessed,
having found the odes; rhymes,
and as for me, this poetess,
it’s time for poet time.

The Poem

Within every dot I’ve known,
and every word thereof,
this idea in me has grown:
prose are life; we poems, love.

Prose appear to me as hard,
and I cannot much explain,
why many charge them to a bard,
or affix poem as their name.

For it is in metered time,
where words find their heart; soul,
when words – as they rhyme,
lose the bonds that life bestowed.

So prose, shall never be an ode,
words airy, loved; refined;
long shall they have their load,
and I – my rhyme.

The Pen

I am the Pen which brings to life,
all the words you have known –
though words are free, you divide,
them into halves: poem and prose.

Though I have written all your life,
And see the charm in every page,
I admit prose is hard to write,
And brings with it a certain age.

Past the prose begins the rhyme,
these words appear to you as best,
They’re truly, honestly divine,
But then again – so was all the rest.

So if each phrase you could repose,
And see what you do not see; perceive,
There’d be no poems, nor no prose,
There would only be – Me.

The Page

I am the page of life my friend,
your piece of poem and of prose -
written by the Pen of life again,
for a book which only grows.

When your end has been reached,
I will join its tome of ink,
there, within its bygone sheets,
you will perceive much, I think.

For in its pages, lines unrhymed,
meet other pages at the seams,
while words which have no time,
find a pause, and make a beat.

For the Pen is right on prose,
after all has been said; done,
they are truly gifts He chose -
to rhyme in kingdom come.