Scent of a poet

 

When poets take census of five human senses
their artifice pilfers the prosaically senseless.

Tasting hard sounds and hearing soft scents as
poetic adroitness to wonderland sends us.

Lagomorphs

 

A legion of lounging lagomorphs upon the morning dew; 
with ears erect, furred statues rest except to sniff and chew. 

Like uninvited relatives, they pilfer what’s undue
of Apple bark and tulip sprouts naming just a few.

Spellbound, betwixt enraptured awe and eradicating force, 
I sit, accepting either choice would surely bring remorse.

Struck paralyzed, can’t swift attack nor tacitly endorse, 
I contemplate my future of more lagomorphs, of course.

Elegiac moon

With smoke and groans the truck arrives and coughs a spray of air.
Gloved driver nods; my fathers helps unload the Frigidaire.

A knife tears through its cardboard skin, the ivory beast exposed,
my gazing eyes grow round with hope as I watch the box disposed.

I seize upon that tawny shroud, my body now her contents.
The darkness veils the world around against all sounds and scents.

As eyes adjust, my newfound world in darkness I abide
with all shut out, one tiny hole betrays the world outside.

That speck of light, elegiac moon against the coal black sky
attracts my eye, arrests my soul, forbidding hope to die.

'Twas God who made the two great lights to rule o’er day and night;
to reflect the sun, lieutenant moon, serves as his sole delight.

In lamenting cries night’s prefect calls, “This darkness do not love!”,
“Look through me, see the Son, and everything above.”

Obediently I press my eye up to that opening,
where Glory reigns beyond the dark, revealing everything.