A belabored writer in the long line of solitary scribe-poets going back to the early Romanticism of John Keats and the wild surrealist deconstruction of Dylan Thomas.He feels that the art of writing poetry is forever lost to the winds of time never to be resurrected. Yet he perseveres in memory of those that has come before him, writing in His service and against the deafening onslaught of the wicked.
The brimful Night - the jocund moon
The fecund ground thronged with poplars
Out of the nights that men have known—
Where have they seen skies full of stars?
...
The ceaseless Night - the restless sea
The hunting place of proud Poseidon,
The slight of Amaranthus was to be—
His death-knell from wild Hemlock poison
...
Yet forever is still too short,
A time for lamenting reckless dreams,
The noble ideals all poets do exhort,
The epitome and wisdom that one deems
...
In a tattered frame, her face does show
The lines of strife and secret sorrow
By the ancient, wormy sea,
Fair maiden's beauty spoken from long ago
...
Can the grandeur of the world be traced and tracked
To He, the unsurpassed, The Creator, only
How gathered greatness in green gilded grove
What wildly ways the whole-whorled world worships
...