Cloud upon cloud, piled on high
An ethereal mountain in the sky
I fix my gaze and begin to climb
But it dissipates before my eyes
Moon’s reflection on a stream
A silver disc; a frozen beam
I reach my hand to feel its sheen
But ripples end my wishful dream
Hope for things I only dare
Fears I can no longer bear
I lift my pen, my thoughts to share
But find they are no longer there
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"I have spent my days stringing and unstringing my instrument while the song I came to sing remains unsung." ~ Rabindranath Tagore
- bard
- A mixture of poet and musician, warrior and philosopher, the bard, having grown weary of trying to find his place in the modern world, retired to the Lonely Bard Inn to contemplate his future. He is often seen drinking or writing alone (a personification of the inn itself), but from time to time he joins in the festivities that are always to be found in the pub. On occasion he even shares a poem or song with the sympathetic patrons, who are usually eager for new forms of amusement.
-- dragged up from the "basement" of my journal, until I finish something new.
ReplyDeletelove the ryme & sense of rhythm in your poetry...
ReplyDelete'what remained unsaid held so much care
that I let go off the need to share'
lines from one of my own- so similar to urs!
The "basement" of your journal is quite... exquisite.
ReplyDeleteNevine
Are there more in the "basement"?
ReplyDeleteWords also have become elusive now . . . like many others.
Joy always,
Susan
Well, the basement is quite exquisitely furnished with fine ideas.
ReplyDeleteYou can just click the "older posts" link on the bottom of the first page of my journal to see the entire contents of the "basement", Susan Deborah. :)
ReplyDeleteThis doesn't look dragged up at all! This looks pristine.
ReplyDeleteI know this feeling all too well!
ReplyDeleteThis one slipped by me. Impeccable fluidity here. Mad props!
ReplyDelete;]
This is some kind of wonderful...
ReplyDeletex