The poetry of life.

by Keith Robson.
(England.)

I feel the tiredness of my years, those quiet times when breath appears

in melting mosaic imagery, upon the mirrors of a sea
that only calls so many names, through pious sunlit tortured flames
that scrape themselves away from light, then wander off into a night
of promises and empty eyes, the kind that used to hold surprise
when church songs played in moonlit rain, afraid to wander back again
through open doors and empty hearts, until the rhythm of night departs,
like shadow paintings on a wall, the kind that dance, but never call.


I know the mysticism of time, so much gone by within my rhyme
so much still here, so much to come, yet even time stands still for some,
for hours are bolsters for a head to dream of life and death instead
of dreaming silently away the hours of each poem of day,
life’s poetry holds certain charm, it holds you up from fault or harm,
then brings you back to Earth again, to laugh your joys, or feel your pain,
I write to breathe, I breathe to live, for words hold many things to give
to tortured souls and hearts that grieve, to countless spirits that believe.


I seek the beauty that seeks me, a celtic song, a sleeping sea,
a moonlit road that points the way to everything life needs to say,
a baby’s laugh, a robin’s call, so much to touch me after all,
the souls I meet upon the road, the friends who wish to share my load
to lift me up, to share a joke, when shoulders bow beneath the yoke
but most of all a heart to share, to walk with me to who knows where
to hold me close when it gets dark, to raise me up just like a lark
to lay by me as evenings dim, so much of life is like a hymn...

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