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A Time it was

A Time to Paint | Meer

 

These bloody dead
That debt we owe,
Abide with me,
Never let me go.

 

That mocking voice,
These clever folk,
Display their wit
In the cutting joke.

 

That tree that grew
Those shady nooks
This dappled sunlight
These gilded brooks.

 

For men may come to worse than dust
When love of self is breach of trust:
A moment’s respite means more to me
Than reams and reams of your philosophy.

 

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◄ circus poet

Sea shine ►

Comments

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John Marks

Tue 16th Apr 2024 20:19

Thank you for your likes and, Beth, Rose & Leon thank you for your comments.

“Poetry is the journal of the sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air. Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.”

Carl Sandburg, The Atlantic, 1923

Bethany Sallis

Thu 11th Apr 2024 22:46

And I agree wholeheartedly with both previous comments John.
Thank you so much.

Beth

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Rose Casserley

Thu 11th Apr 2024 00:12

A worded daisy chain of poetical perfection John
nothing less than brilliant



Rose 💋



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leon stolgard

Wed 10th Apr 2024 10:58

Fabulous! tvm John

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