Category: Poetry

What’s in the stars?
Is it the matter of men?
Is it the dust of the world,
The meaning of when?

Alight and aloof,
Can they even comprehend
That they’re the dawn of all things,
Beginning and end?

Do you believe
That the stars govern us all
That we are subject to fate
And in the end must fall?

Or are they but
Witnesses to this time and place,
Gazers on a world and realm,
An age and a race?

Do they behold
Our sickness, sadness and strife?
Do they laugh at our weakness,
Our flaws and our fright?

Or do they brush
Our actions with fated flare?
Are they harbingers of fortune
Or grim doomsayers?

What’s in the stars?
A question best left unsaid.
For those fierce beasts of the black
May bear bliss or dread.

It’s not often I brush such undisturbed air
than when the tumbling breeze does ruffle my hair,
or the bright set of night, all purple and green
paints the streaking of stars and the cosmos’ sheen.

For the hour when moon-chilled sand melds between toes
and the pleading cicadas make themselves known
is the moment I muse how I remember
the savor of smoke and glow of bronze embers.

A sheet of still water sleeps under the sky,
the bobbing of boats is a strange lullaby,
and I want to lie back and drift far away
by riding the the pale moon into a new day.

Starlight rains down on me, so near I might touch
and preserve this instant with a single clutch,
from warm, trickling water to igneous skies
and toasted marshmallows with sand on the side.

This secluded patch of the world stitched by trees
with its moaning loons and everlasting breeze
embodies my temple in each sound and smell,
from the whispering reeds to the sighing swells.

For it’s here where I shed the dins and the skins
that toughen and bind me to societal whims,
and I know that sooner or later I’ll leave,
but I’ll never forget this midsummer’s eve.

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I wrote this poem a while ago as a memory of my summers spent on Lake Winnipesaukee in New Hampshire. They were the most peaceful and perfect days out of the year, and I only wish that I still had time to go there. Lying in the sand by the water and hunting the purple sky for shooting stars was the highlight of my summer.

the light at the end of the lane
is a wicked illusion of sorts
with its siren screams and drawing dreams
it’s a trap with no end of distorts

the beam at the end of the bridge
is a blinding delusion of thought
with its dashing doubts and shameful shouts
it’s a quagmire of senses forgot

the ray at the end of the road
is a blatant evasion of truth
with ersatz ease of daunting degrees
it soon renders your senses uncouth

the gleam at the end of the gale
is the harbinger of a new dawn
but its hopeless hope is but a hoax
for the eclipse is always foregone

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While my true passion lies in novel writing, poetry has always held a unique place in my heart. This is just a little something I tapped out during my free time. It’s a bit word-heavy, but I think in the end it gets across what I’m trying to say.