Wakefield Mahon Poems

I hate rondeaus, they're just too hard
My thinker hurts, my brain is scarred
To say my piece in fifteen lines
In octosyllabic confines
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I remember times when I was just a child
A little boy's imagination still untamed and wild
The times I'd sit in daddy's lap and kiss his stubble cheek
He'd catch me doing wrong, I wouldn't sit down for a week
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Picture

In the jungle, the lion-king roars
All that he surveys is his own
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Would Shakespeare and Keats strive to write
Mozart and Bach to compose
They all could not express my love for you
The artists all at once would fail
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One love, one God, one heart, one soul
That is the story I tell
My fingers burn to tell the tale
Of my own personal Hell
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Most beautiful prophecy
In the story of Abraham
Who held his God so dear
That he would sacrifice his only son
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Picture
So shines the light of God,
That I am rendered blind
Blind to this world of material things
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Picture
Standing atop a mountain,
Looking out across a moonlit sky,
I see a star.
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O fairest Mother that would bear my child
O fragrant blossom of petals so sweet
What joy you bring, gentle woman so mild
At last, now blessed, our love is complete
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My lady is like a springtime morn
Dancing in fields which flowers adorn
My lady is like a summers day
Watching the little children play
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