Greg Boatman Poems

A poet I wish
A poet to be
For people to read
My poetry
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O how a rose does bloom in the Spring
Much my fancy tickling
Its redness pure, so beautiful
Its redness sweet, so bright and full
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A misty morning covering
A silent shroud of dew
The birds above, all hovering
Are discovering the morning new
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Upon an Autumn's breezy night
I beheld an awful sight
For two days of our wedding nigh
I beheld my lover die
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Victor the Imperial
Rich in material
Thought himself ethereal
In every respect
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Autumn stumbles in
Gradually she appears
She displays her humble grin
And drops her grateful tears
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On a hill stand I
And have always been bound
Rooted, keeping an eye
Far below on the little town
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As bright as the stars dancing in the winter night
Forming a bright shroud o'er the wet, yellowing grass
Ever so pretty, yet with much might
Between bowing boughs' forks, it gathers in mass
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The war is won!
Our efforts appeased
Let songs be sung
And our qualms be eased
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