I fail to see what there is
In a few lines scribbled in haste.
Why write with rhythm amiss –
A soul, that urgency effaced?
Treat not your earnest reader thus.
She who shuts off the world to read not in vain.
A moment’s tryst for your words’ buss
A lifetime’s affair in a legerdemain.
Give her your all, and soul and love
While you remain, to your self, so truthful.
Though you write: “Heaven of free doves”
She trembles at a promise so beautiful.
Waft your poem in the air of fine rhyme,
Marry it to the nightingale’s tune.
Weave in it a dear story not of time,
A dream with plenty magic-dust strewn.
With fingers of words do carefully reach forth
And pluck the naked breast’s yearning strings.
For in artful honest spake the poet’s oath:
To pledge, renege and awe in verse-springs.
What is the point in such cerebral stunts –
The poem is for the humming heart?
Waste not time for academic regents –
“Scholar” rhymes not with “heart”, as does “Art”.
What better gift can art ever receive –
Than a soulful, lyrical threnody?
Please pause and let the Muse achieve
Her innocent way through you to she.
So here I’ll rest my plaintive lament
And ask of poets and those reaching above,
That words are not to be spat or misspent
But woven to breeze a Heaven of free doves.