The Writer
Do youlike what i've written
are you thus faily smitten
with the meter and pace
not too slow, nor a race
does it travel to your liking
are the pauses so striking
you forget where you are
on the earth or a star
you do justice to me
that the rabble canst see
they would step on a flower
so devoid of your power
to see something of worth
neath your feet, watch it's birth
and husband it's development
with due praise, you do raise the hope and expectations
of a robust growth to maturity
to this save me from obscurity
which is where i would wind up with no friends and empty cup
your brow bedevils me with such a frown
i canst not tell
but puzzlement is just as well
the companion of all truth seekers
tide once meant time
but now signifies the ocean
whose predatory motion
engulfs us all
no one so tall,he may escape drowning
perhaps thus why your palled frowning
but can something once said
be drawn back
can poems be unread
is memory so efemerald, fleeting
we forget who we were greeting
by and by,by the way, what was your name you say
that tired refrain, what was your name
oh how really rotten of me to forget
but don't blame me, tis my memory
it is a miracle we remember at all
can the ether be stretched to catch our fall,who are the guardians of all past
without them we have naught that will last,to have only the moment means
nothing behind or ahead,the world becomes empty without reason being led
nowhere,but if not for God who does really care,who would be spared
Copyright © George Boisvert | Year Posted 2007
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