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A Poem is


A poem
is a May day
dawning clear.
It’s an August thirst
quenched by
a cold, cold beer.

It’s ghost stories
told by campfire light.

It’s hot chocolate
shared on a winter’s night,
when a moon
blooming pumpkin bright
scatters diamonds
over fields pristine white.

But a poem is more than this.
It’s the sweet mystery
of loves first kiss,
an aching tenderness,
moments of euphoric bliss.

It’s sunlight dancing
through the leaves
of birch,
of beach,
of maple trees.

Its children’s laughter
on Christmas morn.
Its holding your baby
that’s just been born.

It’s the perfume of roses
on the wind.
It’s the beginning of life
and also the end.

And if you dare
to close your eyes
a poem will take you
far and wide,
on a mystical, magical
carpet ride,
from Eldorado’s
fabled streets of gold,
to the Artic wastes
where the wind blows cold.

It will take you
where whales
swim deep,
and to mountain caves
where bigfoot sleeps.

It will take you
to rain forests
where rare orchids bloom
where lemurs and monkeys,
swing high, swing high
in the green canopy’s gloom,
that pierces the bowl
of a summer’s sky.

It will take you
from fishing
in a quiet stream
to your old rocking chair,
where you can rest,
sleep and dream.

About the Author
We must never look down upon those who dare to sing a song different than ours, because it only matters that we all sing in harmony. It is the singer not the song that is important, for within the great song of life we all have our own song to sing, and this we must be true to. Imagine for a moment if you will what it would be like if an elephant tried to sing the whale’s song.

Born during the second world war, John William Rice lives and writes in Northern Ontario.

From my book, “A Pocket Full of Poems,” subtitled, “Gardens of my Soul,” now on Amazon. Coming soon, “Serendipitous.”

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