Poet's Lament

Why languor such the poet duty; love,
Such squandered time, an exploration vain,
For truth or virtue or the value of-
A search for nothing more than bitter pain.

Yet on and on in torment and lament,
Of life committed to these sordid spheres,
A reader drawn to follow must consent,
To misery, or wallow in his fears.

Don’t get me wrong I love the poet’s verse,
The syntax, cadence and the use of rhyme,
It’s just that I don’t want to feel worse,
Or spend my hours in Sheol every time.

Cathartic it may be to wrench the soul,
To put in words the awkward bitter strife,
My hope is that it helped him to be whole,
To journal this, the sour side of life.

No! Give me roars of deep the sapphire seas,
Or tall majestic mountains capped with snow,
The snap of cold and orange autumnal trees,
A baby’s laugh or bright red Christmas bow!

Peter Lowell Paulson
September 17, 2011