Today is my birthday, the 36th year of my existence on this earth, I thank the Maker for keeping me going all these years. I wish I could celebrate with a post for my readers, but sadly I can’t. Lancelot will be back posting very soon, please keep visiting my blog. Thank you very much for reading me, you’re very much APPRECIATED.
Letters from jesswick.com
Sunrise and morning light
And the sight of melting snow.
Chirping birds and blue skies
And the sun burning bright.
Midday and silent mind
And melody of verse.
Shadows of afternoon,
A mark of tiring day.
Sunset and evening fall
And slumber of thought.
A poem inspired by Milton’s ‘On His Blindness’
23 April 2015
WHEN I look at Time departed and now,
And that promise which lighted my childhood,
Still fading and deserting me somehow,
I see the mark of that which has long stood.
My luck is gone, and my hope is all spent,
My greater talents be yet unfulfilled,
And the genius seems conquered at present,
Yet there be no opening to rebuild.
I still have time before my adult year,
And still this one Talent left to decide
As I behold this manhood that I fear,
Which comes to me wholly prepared and wide,
Or perhaps my verse should rekindle my stay,
To once more lead and see my brighter day.
EVEN though I am not
That which I was meant to be
This day remains very young
And softer be Her palms
And Her goodly fortunes bare.
Showstoppers reign supreme
Golden talents on show
Spectacles of highs unknown
Cheering masses in awe!
Portrait by Benjamin Robert Haydon
O, tell me who did lay the first brick
To the dome higher than glamorous peak,
Whose charms and power do aloft mountains soar,
Who sang like the skylark ‘pon heaven’s crest!
picture from itimes.com
AND now that I stare my twilight of youth
With my verse and my career still as bright,
And my bardhood still awakening from sleep,
I do spread my wings and rise from the ash.
Picture from gaiaonline.com
FAREWELL my Valentine
For time nears the sunset
And the night breaks the twain
The parting day is set.
Farewell my Valentine
For this love be a fickle
And dull be the heart of mine
A heart so steadfast and brittle.
Picture from NYTimes.com
When the sickness comes
So early in spring,
Forlorn it becomes
The clime of sweet thing.
The wind blows the day,
And the thread shall tear,
But vows will not sway
Nor love cease the care.
I may not whisper my sweet nothings
I may not hum those soulful ballads
I may not serenade you through the night
Nor kiss you and dance by the light of moon,
But my love,
I shall love you to the end of day.