POETRY PAGE THIRTEEN
The spirit is restless and desiring to soar,
But windows are locked and so is the Door.
The wide open space is where I would be,
If only oppression would let go of me.
My wings are expanded but held by grim cords
While angels of Light battle teeming dark Lords.
A flight is imperative to quell this rage---
Wild birds will sicken and die in a cage
"Ivory Towered Wait"
I put all my things in order,
It took me quite a while-
And above the bookcase,
I see you vaguely smile.
You have not forsaken me
And I am pleased with that;
You know where my spirit dwells
And where my force is at.
It is hot and sultry here,
Wherever IS the rain?
I thought I saw you wink at me
From your window's pain.
I feel you all about me,
But my heart is void & hard,
I can't touch you physically,
But I see you from a yard.
It is still and stifling here,
Wherever IS the breeze?
I know you have the answer,
Tell it to me please.
And if slumber ever finds me,
Will it hasten my barren soul?
I wish my dreams are sweetened
As the early hours toll.
You hold vigil from the wall,
You make good the rest,
My things are all in order,
And I have done my best.
Please come to me quickly,
You are nigh too late---
I pray I do not faint & fall
From this Ivory Towered Wait. . . .
If lessons are learned by mistakes that we do,
I'd prefer to be ignorant as though I not knew.
The things I must do and the feelings I know
Have become a difficult baggage to tow.
Eons have come and epochs have faded,
Old Father Time left me shaken and jaded.
If I knew back then, what I know now,
Of living life I'd need never ask how.
Some things are hazy, with a pleasant glow,
And at times of rest they come out and show. . .
But I was young and chaste way back when,
And I wish I were back there time and again,
I would have held good times as a vise
And now I'd be counted as one who is wise.
If ignorance really and truly is bliss---
Those are the lips I should have kissed
But the passing of time has only left questions
And the agony of learning life's cruel lessons . . . .
He was her prince, or so he thought,
But he presumed that she could be bought
For thirty pieces of silver I’m told,
But not for all of Fort Knox’s gold. . .
He wanted her all aflame inside,
And desired for her to be his bride.
But no sooner than he told her this-
She realized he would surely miss . . .
“Don’t try to clip my wings” said she,
“I’d never want to change you” said he.
“And never tell me a lie so cold,
Or treat me cruel and act too bold. . .”
He courted and tried to charm the Sprite
Lied and schemed to his wicked delight
But all along knowing, the girl was aloof,
And with her magic made the Knave go pouf!
My words seem useless, and they are in vain,
Best left unspoken for they cannot gain-
I gave of myself upon sterile ground,
Your ears were deafened, fixed and bound.
My metaphor is ancient, mellow and bold,
But in sticks and sand, it is sodden and cold.
Your scorning of this will eternally burn,
And you will WANT as you tumble and turn.
You will chase my voice, but hear it no more . . .
You had it completely-but locked was your door.
Now to your ignorance---my lips will close,
And in dark sweet silence, I shall compose.
Somewhere in the distance in your plague of gloom,
Traces of me will skillfully loom.
You will be trapped in your own place & mood,
And the voice of absence will surely intrude. . .
“The Looking Glass”