A Poem by Michael Pendragon

LOST POEMS

The glory of the rising sun
The laughter in a baby's eye
The bloodlet taste of battle won
The depth of sorrow in a sigh --
Our little earth is far too grand
To compass in the words of man,
No painter's brush, nor sculptor's hand
Can capture half th'Immortal plan.

Sun-speckled rills and daisy chains
Mist covered hills, September rains
The shiv'ry thrill of love's first kiss
The glow of newlywedded bliss
The julip taste of Summer shade
The rainbow's tulip hues displayed
A sprig of deer on woodland rocks
The gnarled oak, the knotty pine
The ling'ring hours that spite the clocks
The trusting hand that once held mine
The trees that paint the mountain lake
The snow-capp'd foam of waves that break
While sprinkling treasure on the shore.

The crooked smile that understands
The tragic farce that forms our stage,
The powder'd clowns of youth and age
Who tug our hearts with smiles and tears,
The promise of our primal years
The sting of daydreams unfulfilled
The silenced word, the goal too far
The patchwork field my father tilled
The joy in reaching for a star --
The splendor of the wildwood flow'rs
Of Queen Mab's lace and goldenrod
Of ivied trunks and leafy bow'rs
That sing the handiwork of God.

Of all these things, and many more
That cause the poet's heart to soar
To love or hate, curse or adore
To swell with pride or vie with strife
To rise, sink, smile, taste, prize, abhor
The checquered days that map our life,
A mother's love, a father's pride
A windblown motorcycle ride
The smell of rain, the thunder's roar
A kitten's purr, an open door
A fond 'Hello,' a sad 'Goodbye'
The sparkle of a lover's eye
A lover's sigh, a lover's touch
The pangs of those who lov'd too much ...
The rapture in the victor's cry
The lonely freight train steaming by.

Lost poems flicker in the night
Like ghostly light from fallen stars,
More silent than a bat in flight
They lick their wounds and hide their scars,
Stillborn in life, denied in death
They sing of things that might have been,
As pure as sprays of baby's breath
As pale as heaven's silver queen.
But less than echoes meet my ear
Try as I may, I can't quite hear
The wonder of their timeless song --
Then, fragile as a candle's light
The poems flicker out of sight
And wonder why they don't belong.

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