The Poet

I follow the path of poets of old.

Their voices beckon me into the fold,

Many cut short in the days of their prime,

but nevertheless remembered in rhyme.

.

For somehow in the throes of death,

They cry out with mortal breath

“O kindred spirits, living or departed,

carry on the work I started.”

.

For aspiring poets share a trait,

a common tendency to emulate

to the point of near obsession

those who leave the headiest impression.

.

Now inspired to the point of distraction,

I write of comrades wounded in action

of rescues effected in countless battles,

mothers and children herded like cattle.

.

I do not know from whence it comes,

the cries of the dying, the pounding drums.

These are the things that came from before,

days long since gone, ages of yore.

.

I have no desire to write of such things

as flowers and trees and tiny birds’ wings.

In poetry books they have their place,

but me I will write, by the gift of God’s grace,

of karmic desire and brave young men,

journeys beyond and back again.

.

Written during my Wilfred Owen phase!

Copyright (c) 1998-99

The Eternal We

Bound in this perpetual motion of love, embracing each new common circumstance with the unconscious knowing of those who strive to carve out – befitting of each his purpose – that illusive destiny. Here, now, we find ourselves, you and I, each seeking to comprehend our part, grasp the ties that surely bind us, unravel the meaning of the wanton yearning that seeks to resolve itself to extinction. For other players crowd our weary stage and once again our spirits must partake of earthly knowledge not one of another, while savouring the tender possibility of what could pass but will never be. So for now be my long lost brother. Do nought that would engage the foolish beating of my heart. See, even now the embers they subside, the burning soothed into a bearable smoulder.

Copyright (c) 1998-99

The Poet

I follow the path of poets of old.
Their voices beckon me into the fold,
Many cut short in the days of their prime,
but nevertheless remembered in rhyme.

For somehow in the throes of death,
They cry out with mortal breath
“O kindred spirits, living or departed,
carry on the work I started.”

For aspiring poets share a trait,
a common tendency to emulate
to the point of near obsession
those who leave the headiest impression.

Now inspired to the point of distraction,
I write of comrades wounded in action
of rescues effected in countless battles,
mothers and children herded like cattle.

I do not know from whence it comes,
the cries of the dying, the pounding drums.
These are the things that came from before,
days long since gone, ages of yore.

I have no desire to write of such things
as flowers and trees and tiny birds’ wings.
In poetry books they have their place,
but me I will write, by the gift of God’s grace,
of karmic desire and brave young men,
journeys beyond and back again.

Written during my Wilfred Owen phase!

Copyright (c) 1998-99