I came upon a lonely site, it looked forlorn and empty;
when all at once, I saw a light; myself in there a plenty.

What aversations, I engender so
in such new making of creation.
Where, wisdom by its eutrapelia show,
I ne’er be bound by versed citation.

Life is an enervated road; we plod
‘til we meet those who think they’re god
Which I suppose is something we all do
whenever, we chose word’s poetic shoe.

However, I have to admit; some gods are very small.
And some it must be said are not true gods at all.

In fact, it could be that they’re paronomasia’s mantle
gathered round the spindle shanks of apocryphal whiffle.

From what new crevice faction they appear.(1965/1970)
these aspheric creatures of our modern year.
That would attend our thoughts with fear:
To then behave, like Shakespeare’s asthore’s of King Lear.
Such is the palpitation of a versed scion,
where would be gods their avails seem insincere.

What ‘emeute voice our failures become
dissevered by them who would have we succumb.
To write our words, by debaser’s rule of thumb.
What strange mutation plays upon their drum?

‘Til Helicon shakes with mount’s indignant wrath;
Awakes Aganippides to words storm fed path.
Now summons Mnemonides and Castaliae muse:
To strike the match that lights wit’s burning fuse.

Wherein cascades of new enlightened thought
words tumble out, their reactive ions wrought
in ways, the poet’s mind seems to perceive.
They too, a life on our road of make-believe.

To each root, intimation’s Avenue of trees:
each single entity, amise en scène to please.
 Without man’s mentoring, hand so ill at ease.
Those flourished thoughts; their self-apices.

Poetic word; Art’s guide-way to the gods
sees prose remain those flat footed plods
by which: we poets still unceasing tread.
‘Til we become as them. Word’s living dead.

In poet’s cloistered garth, there’re alien flowers
Some seek sun’s rays whilst others turn away.
Whilst redolence gives its solace to the night;
its dulcet voice, in subtle ways seems right

. For what could numina’s criticisms attain?
When from a poet’s heart there bleeds pure pain
That like love’s crystal tears, emotion flows.
‘Til words new aura effuses: Their nullifidian grail
which guides us still, no step beyond the pale?

Or shed’s ennui from its falseness of servility
frail man’s self-purpose made poetic deity:
that would so bind the poet’s wish be free.
To where no more avatars, their meaning be;
Iniquities on versers’ own made destiny...

Yet, what more can I in my passing say.
“In poetica. Deus meus non est tuus deus.”
It’s true , theirs never can, be seen my way.

Mor.