Monday, June 9, 2008

Old Poems

This is a selection of poems that where returned to me some time ago. They where written while I was still in high school, perhaps they might shine some light on to my early thinking.

“The Beautiful Day” and other lost thoughts.

I sit but to rest,
And rest but to sit.
As I rest,
My mind,
My body,
My soul regenerates,
From the slings and arrows of another day gone.
I sit but to grow,
And grow but to rise.
I rest and sit,
Waiting for a greater day,
When the slings and arrows will stop,
And the door way to a thousand new loves will open,
A thousand battles will be won,
And a thousand friendships will be gained.
I rise but to love,
And love but to be victories.
Sadly night will fall quickly on this day,
And I will be left alone too,
To bear the slings and arrows,
By myself,
But I will not be alone,
For I will have the memory of,
A thousand loves,
A thousand friends,
And a thousand victories.
I succeed but to remember,
And remember but to live.
My life will trudge on from this day,
And I shall remember that wonderful day,
Till death knocks,
But this death will not be sad,
For it will lead but only onward to the next beautiful day.
I live but to die,
And die but to bring life.

The Regiment

Icy steal in the cold of night,
Covered in a icy rain so slight,
Soon the bitter cold will break,
Hell will soon come to take,
In the dragon’s icy breath,
Consuming in a dance of death,
And there in the dark of night,
Silken earth to pull in tight,
Away from the dragon’s breath,
Locked away in sudden death,

Am I my brother’s keeper?
For the sun rises on the reaper,
Cries go up, as the drum rolls,
The drum and bugle pour from the soul,
It calls for the deadly charge,
And the regiment follows the flag at large,
May no man turn toward mother’s breast,
All went forth with youthful zest,
Drawing out the dragon’s blood,
Turning the icy field to mud,
Running the rivers red,
Washing away the dead,
The regiment’s colors bled,
Black there soul’s lead them on,
Along the grey road between heaven and hell,
The gold splintering paths that reach down,
To the pearly gates of hell,

Our souls fight on,
Our bodies long broken,
And in the glinting shards of that token,
Which was the regiment’s glory,
Now it breeds a great story,
That has grown in the summer’s heat,
So bright to blind us from the lord,
Are we our brother’s keeper?
For the regiment has fallen,
We are befallen,
For God must forgive us,
God to forgive the regiment.

Seasons in Contrast

Winter snow,
Blows to and through,
The lonely hills,
Nothing fills the void;
Like my love,
Of wooded country side,
Of a country of old
And a city of new,
Love of winter snow.
Warm and rare,
The dew does drop,
Covering the lonely tree tops,
Dripping and dropping down and thru, to the forest floor,
Cool, calm it is,
The summer dew,
Warm and rare it is.

The Minstrel

Minstrel tall and proud
Never lost in a crowd,
Marching to and through
Never touching a drop of brew,
Long In frame and sharp in dress
His uniform never a mess,
His music drafting from corner to corner
In no place was he a foreigner,
His pipes sharp and bright
Shining as brilliant as a knight,
Crisp and clean was their sound
Filling the room all around,
In reels and jigs they danced
All where entranced,
And tears did pour
For ballets of war,
Of lands long forgotten
Scores of clans lost to lore,
A man of tradition
A true musician.

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