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Poem

What pushes my pen in this whimsical notch of the world?

   Something whispers to me like an elder dream....
  
   and the trees hang arbored 'oer a little stream of sea,

   the feathered folk flit and flute,

   and sip the may-season rill;


Where sun has finally come dipping like a diamond.....

   I am measured to this mighty moment found;

   and there is holly even in the most forgotten shade,

   though royal (even) ----- with garland diadems made 


It would seem the angels have foretold this:

   to not forget the most beauteous of days;

   with proud hours honeyed, 

   the long-loving minute endures in thy heart,

   and remembers the kiss of legends

   despite realms of sadness and dark,

   the withered wind which blows old upon the sad hills....

   too ancient for wise men; for in youth how pink the heart

   and varied, new struggles are many -----

   yet plain with simple solutions


Mercy hath not a mind for memory....

   swift its song, its house clean of enemies lurking,

   no bogey-man skulking the midnite hour,

   no roving-a-wraith scratching the old attic boards;


Forgiveness sleeps in the quiet wood, 

   and wakes with whispers of faith,

   with the ease of nestled lambs and recollected days;

What poor tragedy to fret with dark remembrance,

   to furl hades in the denizens of thy heart ----

   black-tongued as the devil in his den!


What fool would prefer a scowl to a smile?

   enemies come and go.....

   friends come and remain,

   when the house is quiet with memories....

   of youth and adventure in the old daydream glass;

   more precious the ancient hours 

   and parched the pages of first chapters,

   first beginnings, first faces in the ripples of time's pond;

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