A Bedtime Book Poem by Naveed Khalid

Not a man I know of plumed hat on knees
in ruffled feathers,
whose barefooted shoe-horse in the stable
blows the trumpet horn,
beside the oak, outspread in autumn,
of wayfarer's clime, a broccoli,
from dust-covered page of thy book:
some dry leaves of hastack and straw
her looks to the lark from sullen earth arise,
that fair youth of golden tress his hair
upon the sand dunes, the setting sun at my door,
outshines in white bier to brave thine holy eyen!
against time's devouring hand to my well-contented day
be still at midnight lease e'ery flower upon
a barren heath; of veneral amores
runs in deep sorrows the sea, the sea,
of smokey suburbs by the shabby island,
heaven-ward bent that darkened
earth's infernal grove, my mind's impromptu
of decrepit tongue that walks past
the old wooden house,
pricked with small minions of soring
thumb impressions, of first frost
her falling snow at clover-beach,
the boat is slowly drifting away from
golden banks of silken-satin;
where a cold kiss hath dried such darling insights
but to thee suffice, on wings, on wings
the Eagle still musing o'er the dale in silent
hours of soliloquy:
elsewhere but to find so fairly lost scope of days
that are gone in my bed of crimson joy,
half-way between the carpet upon, my love
of seventy winters have thy November!
opes a garden unto Erin's gate,
o'ershadowed by lone bark of a tree,
my shipwrecked dreams in the twilight
of thy most high deserts, among waded lots
of wonton mire, that plays a hunch
for the parade, of laurel wreath
thy myrtle crown in rosemary garden.

(C) Naveed Khalid

Copy Rights (C) 2017.
All Rights Reserved.

Date Created: Monday,25,2017.4: 58 PM

* Title Revised: From A Bedtime Book To Argo To A Secret Society To A Multilingual Society 90