But for the gulls
Soaring with graceful ardour
Placid amidst the tumult
“Not one,” said he
With a tone of
Finality
“Well, what then of Blorange?
Which the Welsh named a peak
Then too there’s sporange
A spore sack, so say scientist geeks”
“Ah, so indeed there are rhymes!”
Said he, though shaking his head
“But, what poet would use them?
Such odd freakish terms
I’d be seen as deranged!”
I find a beauty here
More remarkable
Than fading orbs
Or heated tones
Here in my solitude
Borne of a love
For icy blues
The Earth’s gentle sigh
As it closes its eyes
For the brief oblivion of slumber
Gulls on wing
Horizon bound
Their cries
An ever-fading skree
Which mocks the beauty
Of their flight
And here am I
On blackened shore
Which rose from magma’s
Golden glow
Now in reverse
The waning sky
Will soon enough
Become the night
Oh, little one
Feel my heat
See my radiance
Do you not wish
To be so grand as I?
Oh, indeed, Great One
The little light replied
Your luminous warmth
Is the envy of all
Words in which the Great One
Took no small pleasure
Preening in preparation
To further explain its greatness
But… were I to be you
Continued the lighthouse
When the night comes
Or the fog grows heavy
Who would guide the sailor’s way?
Startled, chagrined and angered
The Great Light drew a deep breath
Preparing a dismissive retort
Then sank below the horizon
Leaving the little light
At Amphitrite
With its ever present beacon
To shine into the quiet night
These are the affirmations
With which we keep hope alive
And find in ourselves
The tenacity to persevere
This is how we establish
Purpose and meaning
Our reason for being
No matter the undertaking
These beacons
Were not set by fate
Nor any divine intervention
But by our own dreams
A life without dreams
Is a life of darkness
A blackened terrain
Unmarked by beacons
Dreams create hope
Hope creates purpose
Purpose creates meaning
Meaning lights the beacons
So I seek the beauty
In every moment
Pix to Words 