What man is impressed when he's called a lamb
Yet he knows he roars like a lion?
True the word lamb is not used
But the circus parades not the Australian Lion
Whom the whole tent hears roar outside.
The Lion has the heart of the Lioness
And longs for the day that will come
When his roar's heard in town after larger town.
Readers, I know you really don't think the least awarded Poet on this board for a considerable time is as poor as the few awards suggest.
A true Poet reveals truths to his or her readers - this is claimed as the chief function of the Poet world wide, in all languages, way back since written poetry emerged and even before when passed on only by word of mouth.
If it cannot be shown that this Poet reveals such truths then call him the Least Poet of Poor Poets (never let him parade in the ring).
Dare with this Poet, loved Saint, forget false gifts
Which prevent higher states reached, higher praise.
Think new, make new things of beauty with shifts
From old through these days to things that amaze.
Oh let's dare through love to search past deceit,
Drawn by truth's beauty, drawn by Nature's voice -
Be listeners, be watchers, with Nature meet
Then tell of our finds, mindful of mind's choice.
Dare with this Poet, loved Saint, new truths to find;
We as parents would not punish forever -
Surely the Maker more loves our child mind? -
Make the child say sorry hourly's not clever!
Dare with this Poet, loved Saint, discard the old;
We're old enough to miss our Sunday's scold.
There is great truth in the first two lines. To accept, money, high posts, rewards when any of these are not earned usually halts further things happening but if the corruption continues the feeling of worth is lost.
Self worth cannot be bought but without care can be lost
(the Lion will roar but his heart's not in it.)
Why share our room of love's warmth with the world? -
To brag where thousands drag their feet through hate
Or instruct for wealth to trick we've unfurled
The secrets that some need not for love's gate?
Perhaps for interest since our love seems strange
With distance, without flesh, with secret ways?
At first I roomed in this room to arrange
A place for poetry where love on love plays
And once our hearts entwined the room gained power,
An old room yet your beauty brought great charm
And poets who watched wanted our room's precious flower
But write as they might to their great alarm
Missed that love, missed that romance once words danced
Fortified our room against strong moves advanced.
The Poet is talking to his love in their room of love (the sonnet). They both have a love of poetry and one early dream was to invite poets to their home and revel in the beauty of poetry. In truth the dream has become a reality through the sonnet.
On the stroke of every hour look for signs
Of our love and I will too on the hour
And see if we can cross that which confines
Frail flesh as does Heaven from Earth our now.
On the stroke of every hour those with me
Will see a new light in my eye and know
A force greater than man-made fuel that's free
Comes hovering, comes clearing all present woe.
On the stroke of every hour when alone
Come swelling my chest making this man proud
And may strength from me reach you through heart's phone
Conquering death for caverns we cross on cloud.
On the stroke of every hour stroke my beard
And I'll smile as though naked you've appeared.
This is beautiful love - true it's at a distance which makes it all the more remarkable. The Poet from a broken man through love found poetry and found by a like poetic spirit, fell in love and she led him to heights where true destiny is found.
We're given Time's rich hidden gift to find
And you and I are closer than we think
Where places we've searched hold keys for the mind;
Time's very measure, sunsets, reddish pink
Has secrets for you and I - should we tell?
Some would make money but we laugh and smile -
The telling seems mild to feeling this swell.
We'll say Hullo tomorrow, words of the child
As we say Hullo today hearts older.
Where is Heaven? Where we meet tomorrow?
Or Heaven's our hearts' swift beat and flutter,
The journey not place or praps both is so?
We're given Time's rich hidden gift to find
And you and I are much closer combined.
Oh the fools who say I cannot roar! I hear myself roar. The Lioness hears me roar and purrs. I know I can roar. That she hears is my main concern.
Oh it would not matter what I was born
If I saw your beauty of form near by
I would with sounds make poets look forlorn
And win your heart though thirty years they try.
If born a blade of grass and touched your toes
I would study how the wind blew trees' leaves
And coach the wind as over reeds he blows
To play sweet melodies with quivering ease
On my one blade to make trees disbelieve
And if some poet still turned your pretty head
I'd enchant butterflies to dance and weave
With the beauty of my tune and love bled
Until you too did dance and sing with me
And give your heart and this green blade his to thee.
There is love and there is love and there is not poor love in this lion's roar!
Sweet Revenge we in Love's grip use sourness
When suitors raise our blood beyond comfort;
You would boil us hot and simmer distress
And plan long term grey eves as your grave sport.
Should I sting the other bees near my flower,
Laugh at their misfortunes whatever they be?
No! - be sour then plan and act that same hour
To faster fly and more pollen carry.
Sweet Revenge I gravely admit anger
That makes me watch long the fastest bees fly
And crossly out pace them to feel closer
Being the main source of the flower's sigh.
Sweet Revenge I give a sly grin or two -
Through Love's grip I'm faster, longer's my view.
Revenge is not sweet that makes the man unlovable but just a touch can make the lion's roar more easily heard from outside the tent.
If nothing of Earth here's found in Heaven
That has some substance that's touched or seen
Then light for all time would not be chosen
As needed, and wasted, and banned its gleam.
On earth there's Love that you my love can tell
And blindfolded your touch would tell loudly -
In Heaven our love's blind and numb as well?
Oh wasted's such love for all time on me?
There's better love than beauty of bosom,
I'm side tracked by touch and sight on purpose?
And in Heaven never led away from
Love that's touchless, sightless - Earth's love-lust curse?
Pardon me my love one should prefer here
'Cause Heaven blind and numb wastes love's worth near.
The Poet questions the wisdom and challenges the truth that in Heaven, Earth's beauty is excluded.
My love's bloom's aging though more young growing,
Well I love little as well as much more -
With love my humble table breeds a king
Who sleeps lightly not because sleep is poor.
Once sordid madness, deprived of love's depth
Now love's the richest of our possessions
That we're warmed with, content with, measured with;
We've clambered aboard the loveship of passions
Swifter far than youth, sweetens what was bitter,
Prolongs kisses, shortens time left little;
We watch the clouds and peopled buses better,
No false relief, we're away from hate's rule.
Not that youth's wasted on us when young,
Our waste sweetens this our love song just sung.
Those who would exchange love for youth would never have this lion's roar!
In seeking your kiss, praise you see through well
And therefore with will this Poet tries all things;
I've found and know I've found - should I dare tell
The way to win sweet kisses though strength thins
And fast a foot and leaps and bounds are gone
But now I've will to win where youth lacked plans,
Where youth knew not which one to look upon -
Now with words I'm fast again, leap great spans.
My secret's well tried, the little boy well knows,
To impress girls anything goes, non-stop.
With words I'll still praise and though praise still grows
My words dance, sing and leap now, never to flop.
The universe with me just as the boy,
If I never stop your kiss I'll enjoy.
Now youth has passed, the Poet has direction in life and the energy of love in his heart. How should he gain the attention of his love and finally have her company assured but to impress her like a small boy (the Poet spends time watching)impresses the prettiest girl of his age group (where acting like a man funnily-enough can lose).
'Her beauty brings you pain?' queries Envy
'For only those blind would not wish her theirs -
My manner claims men's eyes for misery;
Your precious jewel pleases me with their stares.'
Cruel Envy you can cause hearts to connive
For her face has power to draw unfair play
Yet love shields my mind from your dangerous hive
And boldness nestles well with me, to stay.
Cruel Envy some good you do that you hate-
How gracious men can be where beauty shines
And jealous of their new swaggering gait
You Envy, make me, with love talk goldmines.
Her beauty brings some pain that poetry heals
For her face has power my every word steals.
Envy not nicely transfers his failings to the beauty of the Poet's lady (we have all seen and heard not nice people do that) but Envy has helped the Poet win the Lady (which is against what the Poet learnt as a youth - that anything good can come from Envy). The Poet's task as a poet is to reveal the complete truth.
I chastise shattered words that won't perform
'Spell passion's trance, let it not pass unplayed,
Word midnight moon be here, romance be born,
Show power of looks of love, remove all shade,
Make shine The Morning Star, make her name me -
I pant for her voice, her lipped poetry clear.'
Foolish world, life's dreary rarely, rarely
When her sweet love spirit's sweet thought's more near.
Step aside frown, let her kisses word-bliss,
Let pressures bow to pleasures, words dare smile.
Foolish world silent in toil, love we miss -
Release me to gather new words awhile
Yet I fear her kisses will take my will,
Though shattered, reform my words death-still.
Sometimes the lion doesn't feel like roaring and since he doesn't fully understand always why, he blames the sounds of the roar. But he does know if his lioness accompanied him he would definitely roar.
My pleading pen asks to learn more than most
While our limbs and minds can dance without aid,
Of life when belief in all things you boast
And precious play claimed worlds, where pen's too staid.
Let boyhood good thoughts mingle with good dreams
So this boy leaves his rabbit traps behind
For sweeter things that build the mind that gleams
And polished pen can tell all men its find.
Hearing your words will soften hard men
As pen's ears and ink delight to retell.
Make this boy wish to lean and kiss often,
Take me from rabbit traps to on sweetness dwell -
With your words, leave climbing to dance awhile,
Sternness softening, growing less stern to smile.
A woman changes a man and the Poet knows that such changes are good. He is not just voicing thoughts he thinks are what she wants to hear.
By David A. Doolan
© 2019 David A. Doolan
(All rights reserved)