If Words But Could, They Would ...
I should lay down my pen ...
rather than do this view an inked injustice.
Words both pale and fail when compared
to dawn's dance upon day.
Each morn the cycle repeats its resplendence,
still no two scenes of renew are ever the same.
And here I sit in my room with a view ...
searching for words to convey what the
sky shares in it's dawning display.
As if a mere poet could pen such grace, as if couplets of
cadence could capture the colors of the cloud's constance.
How would I resonate the reds ... orchestrate the orange?
To pen in pinks and purples couldn't come close to painting
upon creation's canvas. To write of violet hued views or
horizons of blue, could never do such brilliance true.
So I question the whys ...
Just who am I, to even try?
How would I ever explain the sky?
No dictionary could bind these colors to paper ...
How would hand written lines define the sun in shine?
Such splendor shouldn't be restricted by rhyme.
No pen stroke could portray the beauty that begins and ends
each day. What would the words say of the sky in sway?
How could verses of verbiaged verbalize ever speak sure of
salmon streaked skies born to morn's salient sunrise?
Ink immersed images cant compete with crimson cast clouds,
with skylines surrendering to sunshine's saturation.
As if alliterated adjectives could ever be adequate ...
I have no answers ... I've only unadulterated awe.
What would justify a poet's pretense to try? Perhaps a need
for others to see the sky through poetry's perceptive eye?
Or is it that the clouds call out, that the sun summons ...
the sky sequesters as the scene serene stirs our muse?
Is it inspiration's ensue that our pens cannot refuse?
Why cant I be content to just witness the wonder?
Couldn't it be enough to frame the moment on film?
Shouldn't I be satisfied with making a memory in my mind?
From where comes this cadenced coerce to capture the scene
in metered verse or rhyme scheme?
If I could, I would poetically compose this morning's blue hued birth,
if I believed for even a moment I might find words to write its worth.
As the sun stains the sky in scarlet baptize, my humbled eyes realize
somethings cant be contained nor explained in poetic reprise.
Dusk and dawn's daily sky dance ... holds my heart and pen in trance,
it takes but a glance to know the exquisite needs no eloquent enhance.
"I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree."
"Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree."
By: Joyce Kilmer
**sunrise photos taken from my front porch/St. Louis, MO
[This message has been edited by Janet Marie (03-09-2003 11:37 PM).]