They say
poets bleed more than other men- I cannot say if this be true;
I know only that the tangled metaphors of love
and desperation
Can drive
tormented hearts to cry out in primordial rhyme
As sad and as ancient as the very birth-pangs of Time.
A solitary blue-robed Madonna afloat on a troubled sea
May remind us of the
hidden depths of implacable destiny.
Our laments are of lost causes or distant memories of the dead,
Like the echo between star-crossed lovers of all the words left
unsaid.
A
long-forgotten bard may whisper a fragile truth across the years,
Of life’s
desolate ironies and deep inherited fears.
For poetry
can touch all hearts, play upon inner strings,
A sacred chord that reverberates in the sound of all
beginnings.
We could sing of joy too: of sudden, sunny mornings dissolving the mist
Of winter’s cold grey tresses- unexpected radiance, ephemeral bliss.
Or of the secret, hidden treasure in each soul , that seed
divine,
Effecting miraculous transformations of the mundane into
the sublime.
True poetry arises from the depths of silence in a humbled
heart
Seeking
solace in stillness and in surrender’s graceful
art.
This house
of form is always changing- few know the indwelling Light,
Ever changeless, formless, eternal, this is the endless delight.
God must surely be a poet for he sings in every tree ,
All life joins in the chorus of this divine harmony.
The wind across the water ,the stars bright in the sky,
All sing the story of the glory of the One infinite “I”.
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