I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee;
A poet could not be but gay,
In such a jocund company!
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

A poet not

Perhaps someday I’ll write a rhyme
If so inclined and have the time

A play on words, a touch of wit
Tis true, I have some nack for it

Of pace and meter, twisted words
Passion, feelings, things I’ve heard

But not just now, my soul is old
My mind is numb , my muse too cold

My thoughts are shallow, as a pond
While poets need, an ocean strong

And so for now I’ll meditate
On poems of friends, I know are great

Just a rhymer - Justa Civileon 2003

My eyes begin to close,
And tears begin to fall.
You force my eyes wide open,
Oblivious to stinging tears.
I stare back blankly
And continue to work.

I could just stop, but I keep working,
I could just sleep, but I keep walking.
If only you could understand,
If only you believed.
If only I could cast a spell,
And you could feel my pain.

Sadly I love you,
I could not do that to you.
Even these burdens that I carry,
Are few compared to those of others.
But these shoulders are weak,
These limbs are tired,
They collapse under the weight.

Again, my eyes begin to close,
And tears begin to sting,
I cannot, keep working.
But I must keep walking
Till the break of dawn.
Dawn breaks.

I want to be a character in a story.
Not the main character, as I don't want to be notable,
or even be given written actions or words.

To be someone part of the scenery,
In the background,
Who may as well, not exist at all.

I want to exist from day to month,
From hour to minute.
Only, without knowing what that means.

Without knowing what it means
To exist from a time to a time.
I want to experience only the good and only the bad.
There would be no gray area.

My story would not contain
"He woke up, walked three steps to the door, and made a sandwich."
Only, "he fell in love.
he avoided being run over by mere inches,
he, on the beach, bathed in the smooth rays of the sun on a hot glorious summer day."
There would be no boring, pointless, gray area.

These words would be written by the hand of another
Existing only in the imagination of the reader.
I would not even be in the words,
But only the imagery in the mind.

This is my wish, all my hopes and dreams.
To exist in fiction and remain unseen.

What is freedom?
What is sentience,
But the awareness of how to be unhappy.

When I am given an assignment
I scoff inwardly.
The professor says
The project is due Thursday.
I know very well that she won't
Actually look at it till a month later.
A month later she'd accept it just the same,
So why put myself through this hell now?

Hell? You question me,
"**** it up and just do it, baby"
It's just some project.
Like all the others, relatively no effort,
It will take all of an hour to complete.
Then, it'd be over and done with.

Wrong.
It's Hell.
I stare into space, dreading the thought
Of lifting my pen to mark a sheet of paper just
Because I have to.
I could sit here for hours and write,
With the same pen, the story of my life,
The poetry that describes my innermost thoughts.

The same pen lifted for the assignment
Of someone else's creation,
Weighs down like the rock
Left behind after the cave's collapse.

The only times I've ever seriously considered,
Giving up.
The only times I've ever considered
Sleeping... Deeply,
Is when I am forced to lift,
One by one,
Each piece of rock, back into that cave's ceiling.

Sometimes when I've half finished,
I think that maybe,
If I shook the walls,
I could let it all cave in on me.
I'd never have to find my way back.

I walk into class,
Lay the sheet to rest
On the desk of it's judge.
Hardly notices my presence,
The granite dust on my eyelashes.

What do I get for my efforts?
Red pen, an "A".
My friends whine and moan,
"You didn't even have to try!"
Because I'm too smart to pay attention in class.
Too smart to actually study.
That I don't have to try.

They don't have to rebuild caves.

Long ago the sun filled this old house with poetry
inspired by our laughter.
We stood right here
by the fireplace taking pictures
to wake memories and move our hearts
with reasons
to hold hands once again.

We are now alone inside these rooms
where our hearts
endure the stampede of dissolving laughter
and I find that I want the sun
to fill this old house again with poetry
that sails inside
all that we are.

Oh, if only sounds of laughter like magic
would fill our hearts with warmth
and we could be as trees
that feel the flowers around their roots
perhaps then,
we could leave these rooms.

Then we could remember the pictures
we took by the fireplace
like a brisk *****
to what is lost and forgotten
and wake memories
that once again
fill this old house
with poetry.