In all the time I have known you
You have never been weak
Never fallen to your knees
Never not been able to speak

What you think constitutes weakness
Isn't weak at all
I've never met such bravery
In one tiny battered soul

Come and gone, the calm
but the storm is far from over
it lingers in the what-ifs, and taunts
us from the fringes of maybe

This storm, will eventually pass
and the memories of love gone
reborn as odes and psalms
birthing life, from their flowering decay

The poet's capacity to love, rivalled only
by their ability to suffer, but
what a beautiful misery it is! as it lies in wait
for the moment it will flood from pen to page

Laughter and sonnets, will perch on sated lips
after sadness has run its course
and for awhile, all will be well again  
leaving poets to ponder love's mysteries

How ironic it is!
the way lovers leave, repelled
by their hatred of the very thing
that once drew them near

You see, poets are like paintings
beautiful from afar, we are
but flawed strokes on cracked canvas
the closer you come

Yet still, there is beauty in our flawed and fragile array

We are the words within our poetry, but
we are so much more than sweetened syllables
we are everything you wanted once, and you
**never even made it past our cover

The azaleas came early this year,
flashing pink in the spring
against their own unruly green.

My dog pants heavily, bounding
across the yard, chasing his
shadow from the azaleas to
the Japanese Maple and back.

Tired, finally, he scratches his
back against the bush, scraping
against the limbs, deforming  the
bush, shaking the blooms down.

I yell at him to stop but he ignores me.

He is young.  He knows only the joy
of the moment, the scratching of that
itch.  If only he could understand that
their beauty is frail and annual...
I want to tell him, but I don't
speak dog and he doesn't listen
anyway, so I lure him inside with
a treat and leave the blossoms
until next year.

Robins spike morning lawns,
Pulling from the moist earth,
Bobbing and rigging new oil
Skinned worms took topside
And butterflies dart hovering,
Swirling eddies over flowers
On this windless day, sailing
In search of colourful spots
On which to land, sparrows
Are nesting above the frays,
Winging with fresh supplies
Building bases about twigs,
Tufts and twine, canvassing
The nailed on house shelters
Left for them, finches, yellow
Headed come in, cheerfully
Raiding the red apple buds
Before trees are even laden
And flowers are out in force
As the rapacious humming
Birds thrusting their rapiers,
Lash all the hearts blooming.

I wish I could hold
your hand in my smaller one
and enjoy day's end.

...

you vandalized my body
with consent I offered
skin as canvas
my damaged heart
your muse

will I be remembered
as your worst creation
the strokes of bold colors
hiding the statement
you needed to convey

a truth so heavy

will the critics see me
as your worst creation
without knowing
how carefully you painted
every scar

Oh! Mr. Best, you're very bad
And all the world shall know it;
Your base behaviour shall be sung
By me, a tunefull Poet. —
You used to go to Harrowgate
Each summer as it came,
And why I pray should you refuse
To go this year the same? —

The way's as plain, the road's as smooth,
The Posting not increased;
You're scarcely stouter than you were,
Not younger Sir at least. —

If e'er the waters were of use
Why now their use forego?
You may not live another year,
All's mortal here below.—

It is your duty Mr Best
To give your health repair.
Vain else your Richard's pills will be,
And vain your Consort's care.

But yet a nobler Duty calls
You now towards the North.
Arise ennobled—as Escort
Of Martha Lloyd stand forth.

She wants your aid—she honours you
With a distinguished call.
Stand forth to be the friend of her
Who is the friend of all.—

Take her, and wonder at your luck,
In having such a Trust.
Her converse sensible and sweet
Will banish heat and dust.—

So short she'll make the journey seem
You'll bid the Chaise stand still.
T'will be like driving at full speed
From Newb'ry to Speen hill.—

Convey her safe to Morton's wife
And I'll forget the past,
And write some verses in your praise
As finely and as fast.

But if you still refuse to go
I'll never let your rest,
Buy haunt you with reproachful song
Oh! wicked Mr. Best! —