Poetry

Where is the poet who is worthy of his poem?

What are the pretty passions that seduce the pen?

How in the poet-self does poem arise,

To be the herald of the soul?

I do not think that melancholy lingers

To sadden quiet hearts in their repose,

But rather subtle twinges of the conscious thought, become a torment for the Higher Art.

For where else, In The Beginning, can one lie in truth?

Perhaps, upon some autumn earth made cool and brown by fallen leaves, the heart may lie and be a part of same.

Yet in this solitude of hesitation... the earth is reluctant as is...

the autumn and the poet to sing... self, same, sane songs.

What images provoke such thought to cause a poem?

What are the pretty passions that seduce the pen?

Ah! Mysterious Muse! Such children you sire!

Who can make beauty of desire!

© 1994