After attending a poetry reading last night, I could not help but compose a few short verses. Aside from the nights’ frivolity, and the improv which occurred for no reason other than the muse struck and the company was good, there was a seriousness to the craft which I observed last night, a seriousness which I have not seen in poetry for quite some time. For me poetry has always been a spur of the moment engagement; it was never planned, and when it was forced it always seemed to fall short. My hand is only amateur, but that’s were everyone must begin.
To shake the sweet bonds of starlight’s embrace;
Holding fast to the vestiges of time.
the phantom warmth dissipates.
How can morning come at such a price?
The misty Sunday morning
Spurns the breath from out my lungs.
Even when observes from warmth
Its cold beauty haunts the eyes.
You are the Orphic rhapsody
Modified, from joy to despair.
You are the brightest star,
Lighting the path to Elysium.
The light of dawn reflects brightly
Upon the silence Archer in the field.
To be his quarry , a true ambition;
For no hand is as skilled as his.
Though the day closes
I feel not the press of time.
My dreams will be reward enough,
Locked in tender Morpheus’ embrace.