Ode To Saskia Poem by Toney Brooks

When Marvell's gardens won't suffice
We row our minds to paradise,
And find ourselves on distant shores
At home by hearth in marshy moors,
Where fires parch poetic tongues
With songs of love both wrote and sung
By angels warmed near Brigid's flame
Where Celtic vates thus now proclaim.

'Tis love that brought us to this shore
Where minstrels dance to ancient lore,
As Psyche opens Golden Box
And Pan proclaims upon that rock
That Fanny Brawne plays hard to get
As Keats from casement did oft fret.
Sonnets, odes, a poet's parched tongue:
Music beats in two hearts as one.

''Red cherries ripe! ' blue cherries cry
In search of hope 'yond darkened sky;
'Half-sick of shadows, ' John once stroked,
But shadows rise from lighted hope.
Now roll those kettles, sound the drums,
Hoist up the flag, the hour has come.
Saskia's sword she now unsheathes;
So bid us march as God bequeath'd!

Mysts of lavender won't last long,
So slay the Beast of Avalon.
Camelot's road by boat we row'd
And chords of destiny we tow'd
Down gentle streams in hues of blue,
Indigo waves in shades of you.
Saskia knows of what I speak,
Of broken hearts in waters deep.

Sandalwood in stick gave me four;
O, dearest love, there is much more.
The ravens caw in harmony
Three parts of two, but not for me.
For me there's you, my part of one,
And so, my love, we've now begun
To sing love's song, to beat fate's drum,
To dance upon world stage wide flung.

Of six and sevens Will'am wrote
To keep chaos across the moat.
The bridge be ours to raise or lo'er;
Nightingales and larks now cross o'er.
Rustling ravens 'pon winds do spread
Their wings in flight - now cometh dread!
Plutionian shores; seas that see
Ithaca, Troy, and Bimini.

A stick of myrrh, the final three,
As armies march, small children flee
The dread of death from Earth's distrust
Of fools that walked upon Her crust
Who took and take then took again,
With dire contempt they churned chagrin;
So let them die a death deserved,
With sentence passed, we have avered.

Nevermore ravens this way pass;
Our deed is done, though true love lasts
For ere in ancient lore and song,
Through minstrels' tears and hearts grown strong.
As shadows float on maiden's breasts,
Saskia sings her last behest:
'Wise men of Troy, to thee I call
And greet thee well from Wotan's Hall.

'To you I claim our victory
For Boudica and raven's glee
With fife and drum and memories
Of him, my love, my gentle breeze.
O, Men of Troy canst thou not tell
Crestfallen ne'er shall suit me well,
Great love dismisses foolish cloy;
Hearts live in ere's abiding joy.'