Tag Archives: Poetry

What do I see behind these eyes,
enrapt in living’s echoed timber?
What source in strength of spirit, I,
that burns the questions from mere ember?

What of these eyes that come to me,
in passing daily actions bent
to find their own known mal-affection
that from their living purpose rent?

See do they? See do I?
or do we think we see?
When yet our soul’s sweet purpose rings
in spirituality.

Unknown to me each presence.
Unknown, the purpose each heart seeks.
Unknown, each soul’s sweet resilience.
Unknown, each journey’s triumphed peaks.

Yet to their eyes I look each day
and try to bring approval,
or maybe just a passing smile
for souls behind each pair’s perusal.

I feel the great connection,
the fabric spun from God in life,
in which we bend reflections to
the solving of each other’s strife.

I know sincere inflections stand
in spirit, soul, and human hand.
I know we blend to form the truth
of what is truth, of what we can.

Here now my day light passes,
that from my walking presence lay
a spirit down to sleep in me,
and through my lips in conscious pray,

“Blessed I am through kindness given
and that which I return.
Thankful, as I am in living
for what’s been granted, and what’s been learned.”

When ink no longer flows from wells
through pens that bring the poet’s tale –
When stars decline to shine through nights
of bible black and moonless heights –
When breezes fail to stir the musk
of woodland’s stagnant summer husk –

Tis then my heart will write in blood
by candle flame of passion’s flood
drawn sweet across my sweating skin
to bring it all to life again!

When fate denies the hands of time,
freezing metronomes in rhyme –
When strings and bow default to mute,
failing note’s enamored suit –
When carol and the chorus gone
from symphonies’ now retched song –

Tis then that I by stomping foot
will raise the rhythm from the soot,
howling loud with dog and cat
to mount this music strong and fat!

When life blood dries and I have gone
to brighter pastures, green and long –
When heart beat thrums have left my chest
and drift in ashes final rest –
When hands are cold and voices dry,
when worldly sparks deny my eye –

Tis then that I will rise again
through souls of ink and nibs of pen!
Tis then this poet’s art will thrive
and through the ages come alive!