To attempt to write a poem without knowing the form;
Is as daunting as Everest;
Knowing unseen peaks cackle in scorn
To rain down in howling storm
And take away any blissful rest,
As, blinded, I do my best
Though bewildered, frightened and forlorn.
Yet we have all climbed hills;
Believed we could go higher.
Failure, caught in camera stills
Pushed half-hating back on shadowed sills
Still, we talk of mountains and aspire,
Though, winded and wept, there is no fire
And the lust to attempt once more is nil.
So what of love? Of that mountain?
That in kiss-chased childhood we assumed
Would naturally come in a fairytale fountain
Of roses and song and “forever” now counting.
In backlash and heartache, each one soon consumed
And cynical, shrank to the touch; marooned,
Silent and cold but a heart weakly shouting.
What is it with you that I have no fear?
That invokes honesty? That turned hopes true?
Overcome, not by distrust and false smiles as you near
But just a peace and a thought that is clear,
You make me feel as if I am new
As if untainted, undamaged; I mean something to you,
Something fixed, in frail life, not warped and sheer.
And, without fear I say it, I feel you could be
The peak of the mountain and a child’s assumed truth.
I believe not in God, yet his Graces are three,
Belief and hope in myself I alone brought to me.
The third, I thought, would remain forever aloof,
Then you entered my world with that third Grace and proof
That good things come to those that wait
I believe not in spirits or stars or fate
I have few convictions, so know this is true;
My cards are down,
I love you.