She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
This is not my poem and
written by Lord Byron.
One dark and stormy night, when half my life lay behind me ?I wandered from the straight and narrow path too far.
And took my heart for a ship’s compass
All through the darkness, I followed no course, no path but my own. ?
With only unlimited darkness before me
Above that darkness, there was no guiding star. ?
That had once guided kings and shepherd alike. ?
When you are born blind only the darkness can see your way.
While death’s cold hands pluck at one's terrors and fears.?
Gladly the dreads I felt are too dire to retell,
The hopeless, pathless, lightless times forgotten,
I turn my tale to that which next befell,
When the true dawn opened
and the dark night was no longer my guide.
Paraphrased from the opening to Dante's Inferno.
While browsing in a second hand book store
The blue cover of your book caught my eye.
Your first edition then guided my path
Into reading your wondrous words of love.
Quite new to the engagement of your works
I stood reading as near an hour flew by.
I became enthralled and mesmerized too.
Your classic speech bared salubrious style.
As the longing in your words permeate,
Your philosophy of life and living.
This be my pattern to which I succumb
Trying to emulate words of your song.
Trying to guild my words into flowing
Into gifts I never dreamed to possess.
I felt this magical pull emanate
To venerate psalms that dwell in my heart.
6-1-17
Blank Verse II - Poetry Contest
Sponsor Janice Canerdy
I
There was a Roamer,he was deeply sick,
Debt to th'immenseness of his gift:
He has so power as to be weak,
They were so freely as to be not lift.
II
Thus his fate with bless could not be shift,
And the shade of morn colour'd his eyes:
Through their source the light was rift,
Though their iris were dread dries.
III
The surroundigs of his bold were gray's,
And the centre of his aim unsung;
To his hermous grave no one will cries,
To his height no stair- could has been rung.
IV
And Who is He? When he'll be sprung?
May someone knows where is his loom?
Whose wind will blow his bloodless lung?
The immortal strings, the Hand, the strum?
V
A lightings' path yet cleaves the gloom,
And unnamed swarms deeping the leak,
Alas! Shall now we fear his mark of doom,
While the face of Hope's- becoming lirk?
Or is this it, what has been seek?
Lord Byron—Genius Unchained
Primus-Supremus-Romanticus
George Gordon Noel Byron
Destiny in Missolonghi at 36
A soldier’s death.
Legendary immortality
Mega-accomplishment
For him the best
And now he’s at rest.
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
May 6, 2015 (Double Dactyl)
On Lord Byron
Far away from thistle and thorn
a genius and great poet was born
Lord Byron was his great name
making love with words his game
The world had him not very long
his verses danced like a song
Women swoon at his written charms
those chosen loved in his arms
He was born to many a woman bed
excesses raced in his wild head
Often crazy and without any cares
he juggled many hot love affairs
Fate lusted to grab him too soon
as he shown like the August moon
Sadness invaded his hectic life
in dying, he left his poor wife
Far away from thistle and thorn
a genius and great poet was born
Lord Byron was his great name
making love with words his game
Robert J. Lindley
06, 22, 1970
Note- Written so long ago. Edited today, shortened by two stanzas....
( The poem is based on the biographical details with quotes of Lord Byron the renaissance poet. The poem is Stand By Me appeal to the criticism of Byron being an outspoken, atheist and passionate poet)
By accident his left leg was twisted
Mary nursed it though he resisted.
A day came when Mary died and
Her dying words about him were at the end
“All for the love of the child, she nursed in lieu”
He said then, “I can put on a simple shoe”
He asked himself, “Why should I weep?
Her matchless spirit sweeps
In the shade of her bower
I remember the hours
We shall meet
In this rural retreat
Now we will see each other no more
One last look what we were before”
Pleasure became a pain to him
At the sight of people’s screams.
+++
January 21, 2015
Form: Rhyme
Fifth Place win
Contest: Stand By Me