It’s westerly the spring wind blows His fervor breaks the idle clouds And muses stir– the moment grows. Should gentle breeze draw greater crowds The wind fills mountains with a song. The muse has come, the poet said. Bid gentle breeze move words along; The wind took up his
At my first cry, my life began in death-- My own: for I, as all are, lost in sin, I moved toward my grave with every breath And every second let the shadows in. Thus shackled to my nature, I bemoan My wounds and tear my binds to no avail.
Cover to cover Blood running between the lines, And lies like pollen Spread from life to love and back. Brother, grant the love we lacked. postscript Stretching my poetry muscles with some short pieces. A tanka, for the Skinnywords prompt to sum up a book in a short poem.
One sonnet from the hands that raise, alive One syllable, one word, one turn of phrase Like rolling waves, the moments, they arrive-- Like light and life crescendoed on for days. So strike, composer, notes, and wave your hand Through music in the air. And raise your eyes You dancers
On me at last pour one small drop of hope And grant me wisdom, words, and eloquence To give this life the weight and worthy scope Beyond the merest nod or commonsense. Here comes the end, and with it all I've got To remedy a space of half-heart