Because my moods are fickle
One moment I long for company
The next moment I tickle
Changes in the litany
That entertains mood swings
Repelling targets for which I long
As on a butterfly’s wings
I fly to destinations so wrong
I end up burning my fingers
In a vain hope to boost my perceptions
Of balladeers and sad love song singers
Whose melodies and tunes accentuate my conceptions
When in a crazy cocoon I dream of a blue moon
In which I cavort
With the goon in a cartoon
Where I abort
Moves towards cleansing the malady
That spews conundrums
Heightening the perfidy
That beats dissonance drums
To pronounce me mad
Cos I strike the wrong note
When I feel sad
To the extent where a plethora of confusion I connote.
Among the classic poets of fine rhyme -
are balladeers who weave with lines a tale,
the satirists and bards of the sublime,
and troubadours who sing a light rondel.
I close my eyes, imagining I'd dwell
among them all - a poetess in bliss.
Could heaven be as wonderful as this?
With modern poets too I would commune;
With friends I'd known on earth I'd reminisce . . .
and poetry would flow - celestial boon!
A Dizain with rhyme scheme: a. b. a. b. b. c. c. d. c. d
Lyric poets, lovers of fine rhyme;
balladeers who weave with lines a tale;
satirists and bards of the sublime,
and troubadours who sing a light rondel.
Will my muse appear to me and show it?
That place I long to be, where they all dwell. . .
and I'm with them because I am a poet.
(LInda-Marie, I know how you love doing spur of the moment stuff. haha. You are IT. You
have to end your poem with those words, "I am a poet.")
Oh Lord, please take us to places unseen,
Back to endless skies, and plains emerald green.
Through the words and songs, of poets and balladeers,
Give us good strong memories, and only happy tears.
Take us to snow-capped mountains and prairie grasses tall,
Let us see, just once more, aspens in the fall.
Open up our hearts, to far off, longed for places,
And let us ride one last time, across wide open spaces.
Give us one good horse, and one true, loyal friend,
And someone to remember us, at the very end.
Never doubt we are grateful, for the future and the past,
Because we can go there, in these words that will last.
For Cowboys know the scriptures; they live them first hand,
Breathing many prayers for the preservation of the land.
Let us hear the music and words, listen to what they say,
Remind us who we are, and let us remember how to pray
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