Photo © par /by Louis-Dominique Genest 2002

 

My World of Paints

My world of paints I splatter, like a child,
Across the blue, in patterns big and bold:
The colours run, they're seen as running wild,
And here we're lost when things are uncontrolled!
Great globs of green now fall upon the trees;
Upon the seas, the colours now run blue;
There's yellows flung, that bring me my knees,
The likes mere gold could never ever do!
There's blacks and whites and colours in-between,
Like browns and reds and mixtures not so clear,
Arrayed in rows the likes they've never seen,
And yet each one the child in me holds dear!
My world of paints I fling across the sky;
Ask children, all, they'll know the reasons why!

 

Photo © par /by Richard Vallance 2002

 

Of Colours All

The bluest blue's the blueness of the sky;
The greenest green is granted to the grass;
The whitest white is in your loving eye,
The pupil there, to see it come to pass.
The reddest red is in the sun above;
The pinkest pink is in your rosy cheek;
The grayest gray is also in your love,
Which leaves me weak, unable, then, to speak.
I say to you of colours, far and wide,
Each one's in place, pursuant to a prod,
And none is best, and none's to cast aside,
But that you'd stop and take it up with God.
Of colours, all, no better and no worse,
And here they are, as things we can't reverse.

The Coming of Age

Our friends are like the flowers in the fields,
And people, all, are marvels that amaze:
In gardens green tomorrows will be sealed,
With rain, as well, to set those all ablaze.
The sun aboves some splendid sort of ball,
It shines, alike, upon both friend, and foe:
We've need for love, and that applies to all,
As dolphins are so surely apt to show.
Giraffes will stick their necks up, good and high,
If now and then to feel the stinging vine:
The sun may be a menace to the eye,
But river's run it also will define.
Across the world, each person comes of age,
With not one name omitted from that page.

Beyond the Niche of Night

Tomorrow takes its treasures from today -
The winds of time across the great divide -:
In sunny climes the farmer's making hay,
Held in reserve what, then, is set aside.
Tomorrow knows what yesterday has known;
It's just the way the verities unfold:
We're made aware for things that have been shown,
With all things new yet hinging on the old.
Tomorrow lives the lessons that we've learned,
Things moved ahead in incremental mode:
Erect again those bridges that we've burned,
Enabling now the rovers down the road.
Tomorrow's moved beyond the niche of night,
For what this day has brought into the light

Were You Not Real

Were you not real, I would have made you up --

To think such thoughts creating yet a world!
But love has flowed, to overfill my cup,
And there you are my future now unfurled!
A man knows grace, before him such a light!
Advanced the age, with gods themselves at play!
The poet's eyes are taking in the sight,
If lost for words at things he'd like to say!
What dream is this, that I should be so blest?
What blessing, this, denoted in the dream!
An altar set for you, above the rest,
While doves descend, abounding with the Beam!
Were you not real, I'd surely cease to be,
For, deep inside, you are the life of me!

© by Richard Doiron 2004