The Aspiring Bard

'Truly I tell you, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.' Matt. 25:45 I am The baby Wailing in the night. I am The old man Quivering in fright.    I am blue eyes    Welling with tears.    I am brown eyes    Haunted by fears. I am The woman Begging for her bread. I am The sick boy Tossing on his bed.    I am hopeless.    I am a slave.    I am weeping    At a new grave. I am The young girl Crying out in pain. I am The outcast Huddled in the rain.    I am hungry.    I am in fear.    I am hunted,    As death draws near.

I have a moon to light the way, Mist enshrouds my going, The silver stars, as beacons bright, Guide me with their glowing. A-roving I will go tonight, Take no heed of morning. My feet will seek out hidden ways 'Til the dawn's pale warning. Then, as night-shadows creep away, And morning lifts her head, I'll steal back to my secret place And take me to my bed.

Scorn not the bard, For though her words stumble, They spring from the depths Of an over-full heart. Scorn not the bard As she craves your indulgence To lend a kind ear To her rudely penned art. Her wording is clumsy, Her pen is ungraceful. Her rhyming is flawed, She has no novel thought.  She sits in the shadow Of those who are greater, She sits and is humble, Pretending to naught. Scorn not her song, And you'll plumb for a moment, The depths of her heart, Be it mournful or gay. You'll look for an instant Into her soul's workings, Though rudely expressed In the lines of her lay. Perhaps it may be That in heart all are equals- Their works to be judged By the soul that shines through. So scorn not the bard, Or her humble poems Though lacking in polish, Their heart-core is true. 

A fresh-turned mound. My sorrow buried deep. I've lain this last Sad memory to sleep. The past behind, The future lies before. Rest now, oh pain, And trouble me no more.

My life slips through my fingers Like sand grains from the shore. Empty, worthless, fleeting, I'll hold to it no more. The dark world rushes past me, A phantom of the night, I am no longer heedful - My eyes are on the Light. My feet take up the journey, My shoulder bears the cross, For now my eyes are open, I've found the gain in loss.

The hand of the bard has withered, The pen has been laid aside. The door to Faery is closing, And dreamer's dreams have died. Music has fallen silent, And magic is gone from our shores. Genuis is wrapped in mourning As she paces the corridors. Paces the hallways of legend, Where man, in inspired prime, Twisted the gossamer webbings Of story and song and rhyme. Grey is the rain on the tombstones, Mingling with my tears, As I lament the passing Of more enlightened years. Heavy the heart inside me, For the lovelier things have fled, Leaving me to a harsher world And a place amongst the dead.

To all the people with whom I have made memories worth holding on to. Hold fast the memories For time goes winging past And days and years Will fly away And fade to grey. Hold fast the memories And, holding, make them last To light the dark, And keep at bay Sad thoughts with gay.