Robert Ludden Poet Free verse

The Overflowing Pen

I write of paradox,
the catalyst of mystery
to flood the desiccated corpus of romance.
I write of stark obsidian
to dress the silver of the night.
I write of wild things
racing on the edge of everyday,
creators of imagining,
progenitors of lust and love
and laughter at the far, expectant tomb.

To write is to release
a rare, pristine ejaculate of self
churned out of dreaming, 
fostering a karma made of ages,
built of old beginnings and the cosmic circus
drawn around the instant now
that is our prison, and
our lustrous paradise.

I write of kings and ragged men,
of paramours and saints
more dissolute, more brave than I
who sounded all the bells within me,
whispered that they flowed
within my bloodstream, 
cried out upon their battlefields again,
upon their crosses that no holy death
could sanctify.  And all of it is I.

I write in borrowed words—a seizure set 
inside the impudence of my design
to join the vast concentric vortex of creation,
just to find an eidolon of truth,
to sing with history a new reflection 
on the  trek of humankind, 
and then with them united, close
and throw another song
upon the altar of repose.
                 ~

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Michael J. Falotico November 12, 2012 at 8:54 AM Excellent piece you have shared today my friend.... Michael Robert Ludden November 12, 2012 at 9:31 AM From one with such prodigious talent as you, this reaction means a great deal. This is certainly not my best work, but I hope you will look at some of my other scribblings and give me your reaction. And, thank you for stopping by! It was a pleasure to read some of your fine stuff this morning!