Between Faraway Distance Is the Poet and I
BETWEEN FARAWAY DISTANCE is THE POET and I
Treacherous stretches mounds of greens feed fresh the mind. . .
never ever upon a spangled heavens or in seagulls’ crash - hush,
nor on echoed notes of tweeting nightingales did I hear; feel. I find
the need to stop, steadily listen to the drumbeating of my heart.
Vivid is the touch of class brushed unto words, phrases and lines
paraded to thousand eyes to be read; critiqued or appreciated.
Not the lyrics, not the tones, not ev'n verses nor blues could conceal.
His pens, the aroma of spring flowers, sweet! Drawing grins to lips:
his style, maybe common to some but to me: truly, one of a kind.
Speaking softly to my nerves, tickling senses to consider he. . .
Our panache oppose however in seeking depths likeness bursts,
boundless in abandon from fountain of muse, more than amuse.
Not a sonnet, not a kyrielle, not even a haiku nor a tanka could hide.
Unstoppable, the poet and I, our thoughts and feelings fused. Twined
in our inks displayed not only a blooming romance hue. Yes, between us
is a faraway distance, so flagrant - challenging intentions if sincere or not,
but shared portions of rhymes, talks and times won; serving as shapers,
enriching our vows. Not long, the poet and I is wearing golden rings.
Written January 01, 017 (09:55 am)
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