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George Lewis Avery

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The beauty of poetry is not in how it lies;
Not, in how the ink stain assails the eyes;
But, upon hearing the song, in just how long
lingers the vision once the music dies.

And so, fate has it that here I stand
with loaded keyboard in my hand;
I take deliberate aim .......... I fire!
But the question lingers: "Should I have aimed higher?"

"Why do I write poetry?" ... Oh let me see ...
Better ye' ask: "Why do you grow?" of a tree.
You may get the jut of its answer, but
*sigh* ... words fail me ...

Should I spy a tyrant mired in the sand
He can either clasp or bite at my hand;
Should he bare his teeth, I will recoil
But draws he blood and he's bought the band.

Achmed, he had no mother;
Achmed, he had no brother;
So Achmed took a slingshot
And orphaned another

For sure, I am a man,
and men do not cry:
But, off and on, I have been known ...
to sport a grain of sand in my eye.

Sleep, sweet sleep, outside of my door
Sheep, after sheep, my how they snore;
The candle flickers, the chasm grows
But then the cock wakes and I sleep no more.

Wheel ruts show that legions have gone
before me, so why is it that I feel so alone?
I keep my shoulder to the wheel ... but still,
My way is blocked by an impassable stone.

And so, I find myself once more
hat in hand, outside your door;
*sigh* ... I know not why,
but, "Are you not the lost Lenore?"

If you would kiss me I would not tell
Albeit my heart would immensely swell;
But if such a rumor should reach in your ear
I'm guilty as sin, may I roast in Hell.

My dear, it is quite plain to see
Your wee world is in need of me.
I would see it smile, so I'll stay awhile
And perchance, whittle out more po-e-tree.

.oeg ©