The moon light shines,
A twilight night,
But even the beauty of the darkness,
To the Splendor of my lover.
A page filled with nonsense
in a book of standard things,
How's one to get lost in a jungle
lush and teeming with all these
mind boggles and heartstrings?
You're in for a surprise, splendor
Forget-me-nots by the ardent river,
Babbling, waiting, plucked to give
Placed on a grave of your spring,
Winter is coming, as fall retiring,
Set in for your rude awakening -
You're meant to outgrow within
The child dies, but the man refuses
To go out and start - he fears to begin.
The faded beauty,
a desiccated blush
Still seen by you and me
was evidence of
a scarlet flush.
But the season is over
And the mating done.
Splendor still hovers
Until the two are one.
But who are we to stand and gawk,
Though they rest in shade and know us not?
Their hour is spent in the maiden sun,
And we arrive after the race is won.
Stoop low to gather useless information
about magnetism and procreation.
We are nothing more than nature's shields
And the guardians of whatever she yields.
And sometimes I feel like my heart is bursting from all the lives I’ve lived for others, I’d abandon the comfort of the familiar and the approval of herds
for the enchantment of new faces, new songs and the mystery of new roads, escape from the tyranny of morality and sanctity, and lose myself to the beat of the soul and the pulse of desire. I want mornings that don’t remember yesterdays and a present that exists for itself, days that don’t hope for the future because the moment is so full of my mother and all the love she has for me, all the wrong that’s born out of splendor and a God that has no expectations but to see us surrender to the wildness of our spirits and the softness of our being.
The mind of a poet is such a curse
Its search for words an endless thirst
Poets cannot sit and simply be
Soak in the splendor of all they see
Confronted with beauty which defies description
A quest for lyrics is the poet's prescription
Thinking wordy expression will enhance the sublime
Poets lose the chance to be lost in time
Though graced with wonder again and again
The poet can't find that elusive zen
I sat this week and watched a stunning sunset over the mountains.
And my mind was spinning the whole time looking for the words to describe the incredible sight.
And before I knew it, the sun had set on me, my relaxed enjoyment of the moment, and ironically, on my creative spark as well.
There were no words, but stupid me tried to find them anyway.