Spent not are the voices of the by-gone poets.
Interred not by earth profound.
Transgressed not by time’s incessant passage.
The verse ere marked by the plume of the pensive;
The ludic; the bereavéd,
All sustenance for the spirit creative.
Muses of the writers of modern age.
O art unassailable, tongue primordial, light of radiance eternal,
Bulwark ‘fore the chaos of a decadent world.
So transcends the poet’s writ the maxims of the kosmos;
Our ephemeral existence molded by stricture.
That which comes of the pen—
Embodiment of the amiable, and the embittered;
The opaque, and the transparent;
The leaden, and the gossamer;
The facile, and the onerous.
Oh Maestro del Verso, with thy ink and thy pinion
Art thou edifier of universes, of languages, of conscience;
Porter of tidings; bearer of wisdom and welter;
The stones that impede the tumultuous seas;
The safeguard mid the tempest coming.
Thy hands, they bid the wan and wax of Luna and Sol;
Thy mind, the river’s very ebbs and flows;
Thy song, the harvests’ bountiful growth.
Thy *****, the rains' arrival and repose.

Yea, poet, go on!
Progenitor of worlds,
Master of thy creation.

alike are
love and
the rose

if
neglected,
farewell
to
both

Threefold is a man's foolishness
When he denies true love's existence.

Whence cometh my mediocrity?
Shameful is my life.
In verse I so long
To pen my thoughts
On love, nature,
On life’s fragility.
Yet from my heart and mind
Exudeth naught.
Voiceless, museless
Dare I deem myself a poet?
If I am not to write
Then wherefore do I exist?
Just as the captain without bark
Is but a soul bedeviled and lost,
So too is the author without voice
Ne’er to be an author at all.
Though, oft I wonder
Perhaps, senescent are my woes,
And there is many a song
Have I yet to compose.
Only in due course
This will I e’er know.
O till that time is upon me
Ne’er will I cease to ponder
Whence cometh my mediocrity?
Only in due course
This will I e’er know.

beauty is the night----
the solace majestic that warrants
the weary eye----
the muse ethereal to whom is beholden
the creative mind.----
yonder the elden oak
'twixt darkness and moonlight;
the wolves whose cries resound
beneath the ebon skies;
the fauna savage that prowls
with prey in sight.
anon, a gentle rain dawneth
and giveth life unto the earth.
anew, the aqueous offerings!
o how nightly wonders
are but the eidolon of beauty,
the paragon of grandeur.
‘tis oft i roam
the terrain so dark and calm
of jovial mien, allur’d
by the starry plane above.
and think most profoundly
on the coming morrow
when departs dian
upon the arrival of apollo.
thereat awakening the many a soul
of their repose,
and the day’s concomitant joys and woes.
bathing the land in a burnished glow.
tho’ in study will be i
‘mid texts of prose and rhyme.
and with wont eye
mark the passage of time,
till cometh once more
the beauteous night.

When in ken of amorous forthcoming,
And witness bears the heart
To love’s fair presence, doth life
Seem to grow of woes surcease,
And restoréd is joy whither
Joy was once spent.

But if subject to the throes of misfortune,
And love remains afar and elusive,
How the breadth of ire, of scorn, of envy
Befall the erstwhile ardent *****.

So oft I think on future’s givings,
So oft I ponder these undying questions—
Will I come to embrace my king or queen?
Or suffer e’ermore by Cupid’s absence?

The answers, I suppose, Time will bring,
And perhaps, I will find happiness forgotten.
Though, for now here I sit and hark the dove sing
And these verses write that my mood betoken.

O Dreams interred of erstwhile youth
Befallen by th' ills of time's passage.
I, ere a soul of bountiful mirth,
Am now but confined to a crestfallen existence.
And tho' memories remain of ****** Earth
Once I deemed my environs.
Gone now 's the unspoiled nature
And th' merriment of juvenile innocence.
Yet, with each dawn's ascent,
Whether the heavens are marked by ashen or azure,
What remains of felicity 's not spent.
So long as I have thee, my sweet beloved,
Til life's ineluctable end.