Poetry Draft 3
23 June 2009
Who am I to scribble
my thoughts and feelings
when so many writers
have struck first and more deftly?
Longfellow’s “Psalm of Life”
fortifies my very soul, arming me
with a “heart for any fate”
to confront life’s daily strife.
Auden weeps with me
when I read his “Funeral Blues.”
What joy can come now
from useless stars, unwanted oceans?
Frost journeys with me
down “The Road not Taken,”
an unpopular path, wanting wear,
providing potential for distinction.
Bradstreet effuses her love and mine
of spouses prized more than gold.
“To My Dear and Loving Husband”
a debt of immeasurable adulation I owe.
Hughes warns me through “Dreams”
to hold tight to my own aspirations.
Life without hope, desire, or aim
transforms to a cold, desolate wasteland.
Dickinson illustrates for me
colorful scenes of amethyst, gray, and yellow.
“I’ll tell you how the Sun rose,” she whispers
as ribbons of Sun’s rays rise and slip away.
Surrender, I must, to the masters
whose verses are clear and timeless.
Emptiness reigns within me, and
my words fall as useless chaff.