I wonder: has he ever been a muse,
With poetry and song thrown at his feet?
Has somebody created art anew
As fortune made it so that they should meet?
I wonder: how could anybody fail
To share the love and beauty of his soul?
A magnitude of universal scale;
So powerful, love cannot be controlled.
I wonder: did I tackle something right?
Apparently I did, for I am blessed;
A mission from a darker, sadder life?
For all my wants and hopes have been addressed.
I’ll speak my sentiment in poetry;
Unquestioned beauty speaks in rhyme to me.
I write again with my iambic pen
As beats crash into me in five-by-two
My metered thoughts be thunk – and only then
Can I begin to write those words anew.
I feel it like a heartbeat ev’ry time
A pulse, a thud, resounding in my soul
And though t’was Bill’s, I also make it mine
But shan’t forget the debt I’ll always owe.
Twelve lines, you’ll find alternate rhyming ends
All puzzle-pieces making up the thing;
Near rhymes, exact, they all make aural sense;
Provided that your ears be listening.
To end, a simple task: by no means least;
A rhyming couplet finishes the piece.
There’s only one place I’ll go, y’know?
I’ve bent my straight edges and straightened the sticky-out bits;
In order to fit.
But I never quite did.
I’m up for upcycling or resale,
Whatever the term is for my retail…
And I’m enabled by a label
That comes with me,
Just to be fair,
It promises that all my pieces are there.
And it’s signed off with a kiss;
But this: I’m not complete, don’t forget.
A poet’s soul is best when uncontained;
Whenever words are thought, they should come out;
For words and thoughts may die whene’er restrained;
A poet should not leave their soul in doubt.
A writer’s mind is best when it’s displayed;
However stories happen, have them told;
For stories always ought to be conveyed;
A writer’s mind should write them, loud and bold.
An artist’s heart is best when free
Wherever muses strike, let art be done;
For beauty’s revelation’s never late;
An artist’s heart be fast once it’s begun.
And yet, t’is best to quieten for now;
Let words and art reveal their hearts somehow.
I see a vision, hear an unheard sound;
Feel something that I’ve never felt before;
His eyes, oh Lord – those eyes, so deep I drown;
Just thinking of him has me on the floor.
Yet up I get, to see his face again;
Not long before I melt into his smile;
Two seconds ere I stop and stare and then
I dream of shortening this lengthy
My heart a drum, my eyes a’glazed with hope;
My mind a whirring book of poetry;
As this be new to me, I’ll learn the ropes;
The virtue: patience, calls its name to me.
I pause my soul: my hopeful heart pulsates;
For sheer perfection’s always worth the wait.
Where iron and velvet meet they crush within;
And where they separate they crush without;
Imprisoned by perception, comforting
Where thoughts be nought, incarcerating doubt.
Where skepticism hides and faith be sought
And where the two sides battle oft and much;
In prison bars free thinking’s never taught;
Rare velvet gloves appease and give soft touch.
Where inner softness masquerades as hard
And where protective metal coats the cloud
A person’s mettle softens through the shards
Shared differences hid, yet love avowed.
But if a love surrenders – cold wet, dying;
Then nature’s glove gives life by velvet iron.
I would not have you fall in love with me;
For what would you do then once you are loved?
You’d wrap yourself in everything you see;
A sentiment misleading, via drug.
You’d tell me how I spin your heart and head
And speak of all the things I have you feel
You’d fall under my skin and into bed:
Where lies the full percentage of appeal.
But soon I’d be a tiresome little wretch;
Who’d fade away, too easy to ignore.
Whose old and rhyming soul falls from the edge;
Too passionate a person to endure.
Unless you are in love with poetry;
I beg you: do not fall in love with me.