The Sad Bard

This bard tries to write but the words no longer come,
Like some long-lost friend always round the next bend,
And he sends urgent messages beckoning them home
So he can pen his tome, but the fickle words elude him
To the pain of his heart since he cannot gain their love,
Though again n’ again the woeful bard cries and tries;
But there’s some poetry even in this most sad situation
Of ill-sought satisfaction: at least this bard can write
About the aesthetic evacuation of his very own soul . . .

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Quinn Mighty in Pen

There was a man named Quinn, who was mighty with the pen
And did win the favor of all sorts of men, but he did greatly sin
Again and again till he dwelled in a den of dark so stark
That he could no longer see and words left him bereft
Of light so that try as he might Quinn could no longer write,
And he became quite the sight to behold having sold himself
To gloom and doom — so sad and utterly bad — and he cried
As he tried to fill his days in the haze that had become his life
So rife with pain and no gain and stain upon his lonely heart;
So goes the tale of Quinn who once was so mighty with the pen

Songs of the Bard

Solemnly the bard calmly sings though the days
Punctuated by nights filled with the light of stars
With pale moon that makes lovers swoon so soon,
And the tune is new with each rising of the sun,
So that the poet has just begun a fresh new song
Sung long as the minutes grow into hours of light,
Slow and bright, taking flight from earth to sight
Of heaven, where time is known but not shown,
And eternity sweeps over his soul filling the hole
In everlasting joy and welcome peace as he plays
His part, bringing art to the beauty of his duty
Happily welling up to an overflowing blessing
In the heart of a bard, who counts hard moments
As joyful messages of certain growth and vision
Beyond the present into an unknown tomorrow
Laden with hope and promise of new beginnings
Never ceasing but increasing in love from above
. . .
Solemnly the bard calmly sings though the days
Punctuated by nights filled with the light of stars
With pale moon that makes lovers swoon so soon

How Does the Poet Explain?

How does the poet adequately explain his poetry
Without much pain, at the risk of sounding insane?
If the poet could explain her melodic words
Flowing serenely in rhyme and fine rhythm,
Then she may as well have written in prose
Rather than posing as a poet, you know it?
Poetry is an esoteric world of its own
Where the seeds of thought are sown
To be shown in an exquisite garden
Of variegation of creative creation,
Not in straight farm-like rows to plow,
So how, O how, does the poet now explain . . .
Poetry is potently mysterious
While making mystical sense
To the avid, passionate lover of metrical verse,
And it’s nothing to rehearse,
But to engage and fascinate!
It is to attract and grip and rivet the very heart,
But play no part in essays and academic articles!
Indeed, how does the poet amply explain his poetry
Without much pain, at the risk of sounding insane?
No! Vain is the task of trying and without any gain!


Note: First published in early November 2016, now republished due to some renewed interest as well as for the enjoyment (and edification?) of new reader-followers.

Happy Anniversary to Me (Triple Haiku)

It has been six years
Through many toils, trials and tears
And not a few fears

And since we first met
Blogging has been an outlet
And no better bet

So thank you WordPress
For giving me an address
A place to express


Note: Today is my sixth anniversary with WordPress, and what a six years it has been in my life! Through mountaintop experiences and many low and dark valleys, I’ve been blogging here for 72 months (and counting.) Not to be overly dramatic about it all, but I can honestly say we’ve seen a lot together. . . I especially think now, too, of so many fellow bloggers who have come and gone (and wonder where they have gone and why they went.) At any rate, WordPress gave me a chipper ‘Happy Anniversary,’ so this is mine back to WordPress. Now let’s celebrate!

An Unexpected Departure

Many days washed away during an unexpected stay
In a place secluded from the pace of ordinary ways
For the repair of mind to find fresh peace and solace
And a newer lease on life and serenity unfurled
In this world of painful woes and watery wishes
And now to see what may yet be in store for me
With hope … always anticipation in an emancipation
From baseless fear with God so near and angels dear
Yes, with this I have made the return
With hope that burns right brightly!
After days washed away during an unexpected stay