I tend to write poems such as these in a more Shakspearean style of English, so do ask if you don't understand something.
This one was written after I was woken up one morning back in April to heavy rain and my mind, as it does as soon as I wake up, instantly wandered to someone...
Spring RainI wake from sleep with my senses faint,
To the tune of the rainfall, so fresh and quaint,
And through swathes of slumber my mind does find,
That one sweet face, so soft and kind,
Before my head can find its feet,
The smile doth blossom, our eyes doth meet,
All at once it floods back, returning to me,
All of that which I hold and dare not to reveal,
Recalling each seraphic memory,
As I listen to the rain, mellifluous, surreal.
The fresh-falling water,
So giving with life,
Calming and soothing,
Eroding all strife,
My thoughts emersed in the sweet embrace,
We shared as I left, o, the look on her face,
So angelic, felt I that if I did not retire,
Believed that my heart would burst into fire,
So now, listening, in the morning light I lie,
And I wonder: hear you the same spring rain as I?
The next one was me thinking about perhaps why I do not appear to succeed and why others seem to be better than me at succeeding in this area (I have just noticed a grammatical error in the 3rd stanza; 10 points if you spot it
)
Alas, I Am But a PoetWhat needeth she, who I do seek?
And whither doth she wish to go?
She needeth not a man so meek,
I have no steed, white as the snow,
I have no helm, no blessed shield,
No silver armour, no sword to wield,
Alas, I am but a poet.
While other knights, so brave and strong,
Riding through the plains of gold,
Taketh her affection and all along,
I look on, deflated, my quill I hold.
I have no chivalrous deeds to do,
No courageous leaps or battles hard,
She looketh not, nor doth she construe,
No meaning from words of this bard.
Alas, I am but a poet.
But perhaps I could still save the maid,
My quill, my sword and her heart, my page,
And though I have no shield of steel,
My golden heart and loving zeal,
Shall win the day with the words I play,
From the ink upon my loving page,
My subtle lines which do portray,
The love I seek, in the words I wrote,
Through worded fire, her heart shall melt,
She shall taketh me into her arms,
And embrace the love which I have felt,
Forever and always protect her from harm.
Yes, I am a poet.
Makes a change from my "meshuggah" style of poems which are a chaotic mess of meaning and imagery