There grew a garden of roses
in a valley under the sun;
while a perfect poet sat on the face of the moon
writing of wonder, birds, flowers, and fun-
The cosmos in rage arose
washing the poet and his words away,
and the roses were left dying for thirst
as the birds no longer had a say-
What color the moon
now without its bountiful bard, once so true?
darkest nights linger slow
in shades deep and lowly blue-
Shall we so easily
give up our place of light;
for where would we plant all that is new,
these precious flowers, so gay and bright-
The dew on the grass
knows of the poets return,
but speaks nary a whisper
as our beauty continues to fade and burn-
Does the sun each morn rise
in mere mortal vain?
or, will it soon share its glory
and give again living words like fresh rain-
What fate awaits flowers and poet alike,
both blooming to die...
as all the while heads do bow,
and hearts look upward, toward the sky-
Wow. Smoky what a wonderful poem. Not that I am surprised by your talent more like you constantly amaze me with your diversity.
I knew another poet who wrote about a garden. His words as sweet as yours..and there he lives now and forever. Someday who knows we may join him there.. ;)
In the garden of poetry, new poets bloom and disappear! Whether they stay longer or shorter doesn't count much as long as they fill us with aesthetic delight, like the roses that bloom and wither! A very enjoyable read! !
I hope none of the poets on Poemhunter boom to die Smoky - but many do disappear mysteriously. A beautiful poem full of fine sentiments.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A very beautiful descriptive poem all of my most favorite things~ the sun, the moon, the flowers, and the poets on P.H.! ! ! Great people that write such beautiful poems such as this one.....thank you for sharing this excellent poem.