Poet’s Joy
Didn’t Ulysses, tired,
weary of wonders, weep
with absolute love
upon seeing Ithaca,
beautiful and green?
Poetry is that.
An endless, verdant
eternity, all dawns
and sunsets, humble
and immortal,
life, death and
our beloved music.
We fear every night
the death of our
dreams, and sometimes
in the evening
another face stares
from our mirror.
It is our art,
disclosing another
self, another sense
to fill our pens.
When we see what
is laid on the fine
paper there
we weep with joy
at our Ithaca, our
lines of verse
ever beautiful, green
and alive,
to gift the world
past our deaths,
our ashes.
–Jo 2008
