The Poet's Dream, Introduction

it is addressed thusly:
A fragment.
it reads:
Ephrem Gray, he did one day
Sit down to write a sonnet
But his pen would not obey
From when he set upon it
To scribble out, without a doubt
The thing which he had dreamed
In verse, no worse, all about
The true picture that it seemed.
By try as he might, from morn to night
Things pushed his pen away
Chores and more, those duties light
Quietly his quest belay'd.
Till that vision, its lucent frission
Had faded faster than the fog
Of dawn, and on, and so his mission
Itself was sunk in sallow smog.
And he forgot, all but 'bon mot'
Of what had moved his mind of late
In daze, the phrase just marked the spot
It was, "I, grown, await."


The Poet's Dream, I

it is addressed thusly:
A fragment.
it reads:
"Trouble's root sprouts forth in youth
Whose beginning is before remembrance
Unveiled, the heart finds earth uncouth
From whence it first found entrance."

Ephrem had then set down his pen
His tea-kettle whistled for attention
And askance the pen it lay for ten
Seconds and dripped extension
To his letter, if to make it better
Or twas its penned pretension.


Grand Reversal

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
We were the dumb beasts there
Awaiting the coming of our voices
Craning neck; mutely o'er where
Reclined one who made no noises
But spoke he not for lack of words
But for the use of lip and tongue
And we wordless, like other herds
Forgot our speech and what was sung
While pondered two, also silent
One with worry and one with song
For neither was there sure reliant
The years and winters endure long;
Though what laugh could the child
Have made had he there speech?
What strange song or mystery wild
Did he to his mother beseech?
Did he reassure her in return
With still small breath did he stop
Fear breathless when he did turn
The world upon its top?


On The Age of Things

it is addressed thusly:
A thought.
it reads:
In times like these a man can wonder
If age is not but a side effect
Of interminable layers of stress
Each pulled, rolled slowly under
Until even the surface is specked
With sweat, with time, and duress
Yet makes fine, dignified dress.



it is addressed thusly:
A question.
it reads:
When we speak of the Nativity,
All words seem to lack sufficiency;
Christmas is a warming of the heart,
For which a verse may do its part;
But no mere sentiment can contain
No melodic rhyme can right explain
What it is from all these flow
What made men celebrate the snow
When it was darkest, before they knew?
A hope of spring in a moon or two;
But the real root we cannot see
Lost in the mist of antiquity
Ideas many, but words are few
From the ones who first did strew
Holly-bough upon a hearth,
Raise festal tree upon the earth?
What was in his gleaming eye,
About spring-sprout did he sigh?
Or did he groan because in night
Like the earth, he hoped for light?


To Be Titled - Introduction

it is addressed thusly:
A prelude of sorts.
it reads:
Twixt night and day I found the bars
Which to my prison bound me
Of wood grown old which poison mars
I knew then did surround me;
Would I wake to find them there
Or alone sleep on in bliss?
In ecstasy I saw fill the air
The seeds of death's cold kiss.
So I took to wandering
   and wondered all the more
Till in holy dread I drank
   upon that mirthful shore
And drew the keeper from his pit
Who hides beneath the rock
And steal from his own bilious spit
The turning of the clock
And actual the prison make
Of wooden fettered sorrow
And from him take, that sallow snake
The memories of tomorrow.


To The Last Leaf

it is addressed thusly:
To a time of quietness.
it reads:
This leaf a blank page
Shall I write upon it now
Or silent, let fly?