Friday, February 15, 2008


At last, a clan to call my own
a root to spur the seedling sown
when offspring of the average dust
surrendered to their primal lust
before the temple, cold as stone
could crumble, as it surely must.

Yon titan with a voice of silk
has helped identify my ilk,
Moneta emphasized the line
whose balm, at times, can be divine
while opposites serve curdled milk
more bitter than fermented whine.

This fever can become quite rash
and left unchecked, abruptly brash
to aggravate the thinnest skin
with shameless shares of sheer chagrin
that issue from a massive stash
unequal to the total sin.

Despite the tribal urge to dance
to celebrate my circumstance,
beneath this aerie I will lie
a mote beside a mountain high
entranced until I catch a glance
of blazing raiment streaking by.

***This may help decipher the above***


Anonymous said...


I never really have much to say, but it was a good read and kept my interest.

Nice use of rhyme, too.

Shirley said...

This is one of those I will have to read more than once to appreciate all the meanings that could be found in it. I will say I liked yours much better than the long version!

Bubba said...

Beautiful, Bob... as I was reading it, I heard John Milton, personally. This is beyond good, friend.

rch said...

Hey Noah, whatever you say is appreciated.

Hi Shirley thanks, yes mine is much shorter.

Hi Bubba, thanks, but I'm still not happy with the inversions. I think it's from reading Keats over and over, though he truly was a master of the english language.

Gerald Galindez said...

this poem is great bob...., its raw

ozymandiaz said...

fluid and classical
to find connection with others does offer our won glimps of immortality

M. Morris Gaman said...

Great poem and I have much respect for the rhymes. It feels very natural.