Monday, September 07, 2015

Three Poem Re-Drafts

In Luthany the Shadows Fall

In Luthany the shadows fall
on ruins of deserted halls
that, great of beam, still rise on high,
that, strong of stone, yet stand and wait.
The earth may fade, the sun may die,
but Luthany will stand and wait.

In Luthany the birds yet trill
with song of lark and whippoorwill;
sad nightingales remember days
as mockingbirds recall the years
when merchants traveled Luthan ways;
but only birds recall those years.

Yet someday soon will woods awake,
the hopes undie and hearts unbreak;
and then the dreaming souls will rise
to wake the sleeping land with dance.
When lives again the thing that dies,
then you and I once more will dance.

Beside the Crib

You will learn to play your part, your wounds to mend,
for love will always break your heart in some sad end,
will bring you pain and care, make real your fears,
yet still will bear some hope and dry some tears
until your death at last demands and takes away
all strength of heart and hand, and light of day.
So may you learn to weep without regret
from memories you keep and treasure yet;
and though the pain grow great and cheer grow small
your life will still be blessed, and worth it all.

City Light and Darkness

Beneath the moon-sphere city lights
in foggy halos cast like stars
their asterisks upon the night
and make the concrete glow, and cars
in speed, unheeding moving scene
as if it blurred the movie screen,
make motion, growling, headlights bright,
and slice their way through starlit night.

Beside the road, and unremarked,
a sidewalk-walker travels home
with step on step through rushing dark
that he may shed his long-spent roam
like shoes on floors of well-lit rooms
and, reading, bunker from the gloom
until, now tired, a card to mark
his page, he thence to dreams embarks.

And weary now I feel, with aching feet,
and all the world a semblance of a dream,
and I, a walker too, now march in beat
to final glimpse of one bright homely gleam;
but of the lights I see, what light can shine
to promise me my goal? For none are mine.
But forward still I march, without retreat
until that window-shine of light most sweet.

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