I was so much older then; I’m younger nowadays.
That was in the '80s, in my giant glasses phase.
I still sport a beard today, though this is changing hue,
like my lonesome, lovely locks; the grey is breaking through!
I was so much wiser then; I’m more obtuse today.
My words were weighty in the past; I had something to say!
Loquacious lines are all that pour from my poor pen these days;
In ‘82, was Jesus-Fire that set the page ablaze!
I was full of faith and fervour, passion, praise and pride.
Now, I’m like a fount of fear, a restless, torrid tide.
The days are darker, to me, now; how swift they sail away!
With all my lonesome, love-sick heart, I long for yesterday.
-
Author:
Blue-eyed Bolla (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: January 3rd, 2021 07:00
- Comment from author about the poem: one of those days...
- Category: Spiritual
- Views: 20
Offline)
Comments2
I really like your verse, a rousing poulter's measure (iambic heptameter couplets) that deftly avoids sounding like Edgar A. Guest.
To my eye, this verse would be better set up with left justification rather than with the middle axis MyPoeticSide defaults to if not strongly dissuaded from it.
The only reason I'd want to learn Russian would be to be able to read Pushkin. My foreign language is German.
Many thanks, Richard. So glad you like my poor verse. I will take on board your recommendations. By the way, I am an admirer of Pushkin. I humbly submit for your perusal a poem I once penned about him:
Pushkin's Poems
Pushkin's poems, when I'm broody,
pick me up, and when I'm moody
they snap the melancholic fetter
that binds me, and I feel much better.
Pushkin, was the people's poet,
heroic verse he would bestow it,
in raw, romantic, risque rhyming,
damn-busting poems he'd been priming.
Pushkin; have you had the pleasure?
No? You've missed a precious treasure.
Peruse a poem if you're doubting,
see for yourself 'bout what I'm shouting!
(Pushkin had, for feet, a fetish.
So, Russian girls - he'd called coquettish
- their feet, he'd celebrate in sonnets,
ignoring heads bedecked by bonnets!)
Pushkin though was only messin.'
He thought good cheer he'd give, confessin.’
His witty wonder words were magic,
till duelist's bullet turned 'em tragic.
I like that poem. I'm not really familiar with Pushkin - does it sound like his style in Russian?
Ahh, there you are today - the one on the left.
Dunno who that bloke is on the right! lol.
lol. I don't really know who he is either.
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