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  Oct 2018 Timothy
Tryst
A lake as still as still — a cloudless sky —
A bird-less forest — silent as the page,
That monk-like sits reflecting for an age
On pious deeds exalted upon high,
The page gilded in wisdom, lauded by
Its maker’s peers, wherein is set the stage
For Nature’s bountied beauty — I give homage
Unto its gifted craftsman, one that I
Have oft’ with envious eyes admired afar,
And matchless to his art, have grasped for skill
Far far above my grade — From him to me
Has come a gift as bright as Keats' Bright Star —
        Unto thy lake, may this stone rend the still,
        And loose thy songbird skywards, Timothy.
To one who inspires us all, in the hope this may inspire thee.
Timothy Oct 2018
There is no comfort on the storm tossed sea,
Where haply death claims lives without a trace.
There in the froth, the gale, the waves that be,
Convulsed from clime to clime, and now embrace
What I just cannot fathom nor conceal,
The dark and boundless depths that now reveal—
The lives, long gone, a homeless corpse up churn'd
The shores that change but ne'er cease to recall
A rage that sank both sailour and the learn'd,
No knells, no coffins, graves, or ev'n headstones at all!

O, rolling ocean, ship's wreckage contained
Inside thy stomach deep and rotting be,
The *****, the free, the captain thou retained;—
Mere bones, that once were faces, they to me
Are nameless and unknown, they be not mine,
All wrapt in tangle, fathom deep in brine.
Somewhere someone adored and loved their form;
Yet now fore'er engulf'd in bub'ling foam,—
Still in the barnacles that are their dorm,
Old ship was matchless to the storm—hear thy last groan.

Yet standing on thy shores, heave to and fro,
No evidence of death that catch my eyes;
Thy waters glass, they sometime toss and go
Without impending gloom, no darken'd skies.
My love, ocean, rekindled all for thee,
Within my heart, within my soul, and see;—
Time changes not thy waves wherein I play'd
As childhood waned, adulthood now I find—
Both cheerful and the cheerless waters spray'd,
Thou givest hours of cheerfulness and death unkind.
( Dedicated to Tryst. )
© Timothy 20 January 2015
Timothy Oct 2018
Shadows fall to earth . . .
Crossing pathways, sun and moon
. . . Briefly together.
© Timothy 21 August 2017
Timothy Oct 2018
Sunlight is dimming . . .
Shades of Eventide appear
. . . Sun and Moon embrace.
© Timothy 21 August 2017
Timothy Oct 2018
No swelling anthems do I offer thee,
     Gone are those words that came so quick by day,
     And in whose mind they seem'd to swell and sway,
And leave just as another came to me.
I merely have a simple, "Thank thee," see?
     A poor reflection of those flow'rs of May
     An unforgiving nagging in mine lay
'Pray render more and more about the lea.'

     O mine good friend, now take a look at this,
These words art meant for thee, for thee art penn'd!
Thou didst arise, like Byrons rolling sea,
     To shake an Ode for me—how great that bliss!
Now for thee, Tryst, these poor lines here do wend,
Across that mighty ocean to bless thee!
A thank thee to Tryst for those lovely words!
© Timothy 14 October 2018
Timothy Aug 2017
Time ebbs away so craftily, so fast
     An hour, a day, a month, or yet a year—
     A decade too—they all shall disappear
And soon the present will become the past.
Death waits with ready sickle for the blast,
     When that appointed Time draws ever near,
     And greets us all with trembling hand, or tear,
With knells and saddest dirge, buried at last.

     But God shall one day waken all these bones,
Which now lay mould’ring with damp worms and clay,
Shall gather all our dust and bid it rise.
     For now, each dreamless head sleeps ‘neath these stones,
Soon God shall raise them to unending Day
Our blissful, heav’nly home, beyond the skies.
19 March 2017 9:28am EDT
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