The Poet

THE POET’S PANEGYRIC

 

There's someone I knew with talent unleashed

and a heart that had for so many relentlessly reached.

This poet sought inspiration from the living and the dead

but I can tell you this about the poet who has moved me by what this poet had ever said...

I read his words from a comfort zone

which this poet created, surrounded by friends or by foes or simply alone.

 

His essence of soul sweeps down deserted dead streets

where the thunder still crackles, the burial bell bleats.

He laughs at himself as a Royal Rhymester Clown

but bears the black pains of those all aroun’.

He echoes regrets but never a grudge

... of this I’ll say little... let his lines be the judge...

 

THE POET’S PEN

 

Blind shots cry out beneath the night,

a car is cruising by.

A stripling’s blood streams words to write

... Wry rhymes to ask us why

 

A silly girl with child, unwed...

to many, but a slut.

The baby at her breast is dead

... Cruel couplets meant to cut

 

A drifter, broken, cast aside,

lies lifeless in the cold.

Tap tattoos on a tattered hide

... Some scarlet stanzas scold

 

Two lovers clutch a turtledove,

enraptured by her coo,

impaled on pangs of Ladylove

... A sultry song for two

 

A drone of drums in distant wars

beguiling bold dragoons

who sell their souls like wanton whores

... Raw rhythms writ in runes

 

The stars ablaze in tiger eyes

reflecting candlelight,

’lume angels singing Lullabies

... A sonnet stuns the night

 

The soulless eyes of shackled slaves

bleed tears that burn and blur.

Their ash, like dust, set free in graves

... Emblazing ballads stir

 

A hurricane, foretold, unfurled,

unravels mystic signs

as Demons dance, destroy the World

... Limned lurid lyric lines

 

Some die a death neath hangmen’s hands

where tainted justice reigns

for "thou shalt kill!" Revenge commands

... A quiet quatrain pains

 

While well-to-dos amass and flaunt

and follow fashion’s trends,

pale children starve and die of want

... And so an epic ends

 

THE POET’S EPITAPH

 

His words, he strewed along the sand

while breakers washed ashore

and ripples wove designs unplanned

... A verse forevermore

 

His tales, entwined in cryptic airs

where freedom seeds are blown,

warn Guarders of the Realm ‘beware’

... His heresy is sown

 

His life outlined a chronicle

along a lonesome road.

It started out as doggerel

... and ended up an ode

 

 

 

 

 

(with a little help from my friend)