Summer Portrait (1987)
I like a drowsy summer
and a lazy wistful day
When skeeters hum their little tunes
and bullfrogs croak away,
When fireflies greet the twilight
with luminescent glow,
And I can sit 'til heart's content
a-rocking to and fro.
It makes me feel all tingly
like a child at Christmas time,
Like a hound dog chasing rabbits
or a poet penning rhyme;
And when I gently close my eyes
in unexpected slumber,
The stars and planets gather 'round
in undetermined number.
A man could live a long, long time
in such an awesome place
With nature for a neighbor
and memories to embrace.
If I could paint a masterpiece
for all the word to see,
I'd paint a drowsy summer day
for lazy folk like me.
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Poetry may be likened to a window through which may be seen the soul of humanity. It is also the key to living and mother of accomplishment. Above all, it is a bridge constructed with bricks of verse, stone of imagery, and mortar of eloquence -- a bridge permitting access into parallel worlds of adventure, romance, reverie, and inspiration. Worlds in which there is truly something of value for all who travel across.
But, let us imagine for a moment that our bridge had never been conceived or constructed due to a critical absence of builders. If this were true, we would now be unaware of such notable poets as Homer, Virgil, Dante, Shakespeare, Burns, Keats, Byron, Kipling, Longfellow, Wordsworth, Poe, Dickinson, or Frost.
I have frequently attempted to contribute my own labors to the perpetuation of this bridge. However, lest my limited talents prove inadequate to excite the senses or inflame the passions, let me caution travelers that my bricks are new, my stones uncertain, and my mortar experimental.
Pebbles & Verses
A pebble dropped
in a dwindling stream
gives birth to a poet's
fantasy dream,
but who could guess
and who would know
if not for the circles
widening so?
And in the autumn
of a lyrist's time
when words come hard
or fail to rhyme,
who could guess
and who would know
if not for the heartaches
poets know?
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