POETRY
The poetry of poetry
Excites me with its mystery
The lines themselves may never mean a thing
But poetry, like symmetry,
Seems almost perfect bliss to me
My heart takes flight like birds upon the wing
I cannot say, I dare not say,
That somehow soon there'll come a day
When I can write like poets of the past
And though each day with words I play
I know there will be some delay
My true vocation's here - the dye is cast
Here in my soul there burns a fire;
I need no Wordsworth to inspire
John Betjeman, Keats, Shelley felt the same
I know I couldn't aim much higher
And of their work I shouldn't tire
But then those men have never heard my name
Maybe if they had heard of me,
Had read my lines of poetry
They would have shrugged their shoulders with a sigh
And said that my philosophy
Was merely shallow sophistry
Which left them with a single question - Why?
SO MANY SILENCES
Round Silence resides in the rolling hills
Of contentment
Is buffered on all of its downy perimeters
By tranquillity
Is endlessly comforting and, above all,
Is a welcome retreat
Jagged Silence bestirs nothing save
The raucous sound
Of chafing discontentment,
Protrudes like an eyesore skyscraper
Of disillusionment
Is enslaving, destructive and, above all,
Is unpredictable
Sudden Silence, the nomad which creeps on all fours
To disquiet
Is pregnant with menace,
Brings restlessness and uncertainty,
Is reluctantly accepted and, above all,
Is disabling
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