Our Own Poetry

And that, my dear friend is poetry,
That which brings joy to a man solitary,
Makes musical a moment seeped in melancholy,
Feels like a drop of hot, sweet honey;
That, dear friend, is the gift of poetry.

Harbinger of beauty, and of things unfelt,
Things with which we deal and they did too
With flowers and swords in their belt
And flute, long, slender and new.

Amidst the forest of woe and winds of bliss,
Like within the flames a cold unseemly kiss
That which burnt more than the dancing phoenix
Reciting a note that sang, “This
Is, my friend, poetry – the soul’s fantasy.”

Lilac in our hearts, scarlet around us,
Yet our dreams do none douse
Because within us, my lad, we live our story,
Bedtime lullaby for our sordid reality

Sung in jubilant rhymes by a band
That grew in our mind’s gypsy land
Traipsing across our memory, belonging to no hand,
Like ripples frolicking as kids on a placid pond,

As a myriad of sparrows flew over the pond
Chirruping their greetings to the swaying pods
Dancing to and fro to the wind alike
And that, my friend, makes us come alive.

Sounds and songs of the sea
That tell the clouds its many tales
As they shed their tears; aren’t they man’s fears?
And, as such, have passed many a year
Yet, here we are!

Here, versing: Versing of world’s simplicity,
And within it, our one and only story,
Our one dream, our beloved fantasy,
That, my dear friend, is our own poetry.