Sometimes I wake at rosy-fingered dawn
to pen my lines when dew drops grace the lawn.
By dusk, when blood-red moon begins to bleed,
my sorrow-laden lines I dare not read.
Some days the poems pour out of my soul,
released from county jail - out on parole.
Lay low like lines of laughing liberty,
hysterical to be at last set free!
My verse will sometimes freeze – refuse to flow.
Take root inside me, then mutate and grow.
Until I’m large with child of pregnant prose;
these still-born poems, damned, do decompose.
On dreamless days my rhymes are red and raw.
Since they do grieve for one I knew before.
Before fate fed to me (a yearning youth)
cruel heartbreak’s tried and tested tragic truth.
Sometimes when I’m composing, all Hell-bent,
I miss the words my Muse has Heaven-sent.
I substitute my own to fill the gap;
that’s why sometimes I serve such sorry sap!
In haste I’ll steal fruit early from the vine
before the verse can turn to vintage wine.
By plucking prematurely rhymes unripe
my scrawl, from sour grapes, will give you gripe!
In spring I come to life at 3.00 am
and conjure up a priceless little gem.
A poem, so divine, the angels weep.
Then dawn, it breaks, and I can’t get to sleep!
When I must walk the dog, but need to write
and daren’t delay, for words will soon take flight.
I tie him up to rail by roadside tree,
to pine away, while I pen poetry.
Sometimes my words are shy; they hide from me!
Like faery folk in sylvan, shady lee.
Each one, a springtime lamb, that I have nursed,
naïve as child, in evil still unversed.
I wield my pen, some say, like wizard’s wand,
beguiling you with beauty from beyond.
In making magic I don’t mean to mock;
I simply want to stir you up, not shock!
My pen, on Sunday’s quiet as a quill
and sonnets so serene do simply spill
upon my parchment or papyrus page:
wise words, as well as wonderful, like sage.
Of course, when lines are lean and I feel old
my heart feels froze as arctic wind, ice cold!
I close my eyes and lisp, like child, a prayer;
If no one else, at least my soul is there!
Sometimes I write on water’s weary waves,
with tears, for those with seaweed shadowed graves,
whose feet, upon the land, will no more tread;
I eulogize these hopeless ocean’s dead.
In youth, my verse was callous and uncouth,
just jaded juvenilia of youth,
which I transcribed from heart, back then, unbroke
before I’d stained, with tears, my poet’s cloak.
I wish that I could start it all again;
write for a living by the paying pen
creating novels fit for silver screen.
By Midas Touch, grow rich, but not grow mean!
Meanwhile, in garret’s gloom the death-knell rings;
it’s tolling just for me, while siren sings.
On snorting horses DEATH and HELL ride out;
then I awake from dream, so shocked, I shout!
Sometimes I sit dejected in my room,
a grieving ghost in garret’s gabled gloom.
My ink won’t flow, to splash my empty sheet,
but this will pass, and this is not defeat!
One day I’ll write, make Heaven touch the Earth
with angel’s breath, to bless with new-born birth
pure poems, rich, with rare, romantic rhyme,
inspired by muse’s sweetness, so sublime!
-
Author:
Blue-eyed Bolla (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: June 11th, 2021 05:44
- Comment from author about the poem: the sad little tale of my years of poetic production
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 18
- Users favorite of this poem: Saxon Crow, Doggerel Dave, Accidental Poet, jarcher54.
Offline)
Comments6
Beautifully written Kevin and completely relatable. Faved
Many thanks, Saxon, for taking the time to read and comment on my slightly long poetic outburst. Appreciate your taking the time.
What is poetry if not given yourself permission to express!
You are too good for me - I can't find anything intelligible to make commentary with. It would sound too pedestrian after that.
All I can do is fave it ......
Thanks Kevin.
Thanks DD. I have tended to ramble on a bit. I think I was trying to say how all us amateur poets feel.
Did that too well.
If however you decide to edit at anytime, will you keep us informed with a revisit, please.
Great poem . 🙂
Thank you
I know this feeling all too well Kevin. Sometime those lyrical wheels seem to have 4 wheel drive and keep on truckin through the toughest of terrain. Then other times its like the lyrical wheels have run out of gas, leaving you dead on the side of the road. But this poem you have here is in itself a masterpiece of work. It shows you have graduated from amateur to pro. Keep on truckin Kevin. ; )
Thank you, AP. You do me a great honour, but 'a masterpiece' I don't think so. I'm just churning out, as usual, my poor little rhymes.
Usual masterpieces my friend. This ain't your first rodeo. ; )
Your style and theme blend perfectly here. There are many really inventive, sincere, crafty, elegant, or inspiring pieces on MPS, but this work epitomizes what sites like this were made for. A real treasure. This reminds me of the elusive, tragic, self-taught genius poet of the English farm and field John Clare. (If you haven't read him check out his listing in MPS.) We all thank you.
Thank you, J. Yeah, I'm familiar with John Clare. His was a sad life. He was criticised, but his poems are so beautiful.
Such great words Kevin, words can come and go in seconds and when they come to us by the bucket load we have no way to write them down. But these words of yours relate to so many of us who write such words.
Andy
Many thanks, Andy.
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