Night Sky

A night sky bleeds to darkness,
Like a sea with wounded prey,
Whose life force ebbs in distress,
Suffers half life and decay,
'Ere the pitch fully posses,
Polaris pulses and will allay,
Morose melancholy.

Shadows blend in firmament,
As Luna leaks morning star,
Endlessly, the dark is rent,
As worlds and orbs gleam afar,
And night gazers will invent,
A strange celestial bazaar,
Beaming bestiary.

Ursa Major and her minor,
Lumber into perception,
Near a beast of great honor,
Leo hunts stars in motion,
'Cross the dome graceful Cygnus,
Wings spread — divine deception,
Miraged mythology.

Stars story beasts and titans,
Such is Cassiopeia's tale,
Fair among the courtesans,
'Mid the stars her grace unveils.
Of stately and strong Orion,
The warrior of light will regale,
Dreaming divinity.

Centaur, bull, and scorpion,
Fully saturate starfields,
Myriad myths of imagination
Coerce crepuscule to yield,
From half-life to redemption,
Poets and seers are healed,
Singing serendipity.


Star light, star bright,
In the deep of the night,
A salve to lost sight,

Disenchanted,
Re-enchanting,
Muse!

Prints

As feet displace the grains,
A story do they tell,
Of sweetness, or of pains,
Of heaven or of hell.

Though our thunder rages,
The story is of chalk,
The stories, the places,
But traces whence we walk.

Our dreams, like specters fade,
With the chimes of the bells,
Grass blends where they have laid,
Our cold and empty shells.

And the marks we have set,
Amid the shifting sand,
A cold rush to forget,
Severs the silver strand.

Thus lost would be the prints,
And the trail would grow cold,
For what our lives have meant,
Would ever be untold.

But nothing that is loved,
Is lost to kin and place,
Naked, washed, and salved,
The ode retold in grace.

As feet displace the grains,
A story they do tell,
The echo does remain,
Beyond the last farewell.

Toad

With skin of sand,
Who hops on land,
And legs of spring,
A guttural sing,
And feet of web,
A hide to shed,
Below a rock,
You hear him talk,
About weather, or spring,
Or most anything!
When the rain will soak,
Hear his happy croak,
His tongue can steal,
A low flying meal,
Then he will sit...
Watch some TV...
Read the paper...
Play some cards...
Or simply unload,
Being a happy toad!

A poem commissioned by my soon to be ten year old Benjamin Thomson...this is for you.