Montrose at Morning

And surely now the birds have come back into my life,
Their song, intoxicating, at first light
Perfect, with Spring-like beauty bright,
Perfect score to a rising and shining wife.

2008 Patrick C. Arbo

The Great Hall

I’ve been walking the walls all morning
Putting myself in the shoes
Of people in painted portraits
Who are seated, standing, gazing, forlornly

Being captured easily, by but a few colors
On a wobbling easel which is monitored by mothers

But I can not feel their royalty
Their spoils of war
Nor taste their tea

So daintily placed on a table of glass
Centered betwixt the valiant suitor and fair lass

Nor be as stern as the mother-grand
The matriarch of iron hand
And paper fist
And perfume mist
Whose kiss had one day set sail the ships

Of the Captain on the South wall behind the veil
Stately displaying a salad bar of medals and stars on his lapel.

Who hunted with the nephew hanging just to the left,
The portly young lad who had clung to his heft

Like he clung to the hounds which are surrounding a trembling beaver
Nary a week before the child would die of yellow fever.

All of the history, all in a name
All of the decadence, pain, destruction and fame.

One last look and I exit to a bright, lively lawn
Not once looking back, and the Artist is gone.

A Simple Reply

A man said:
"Why do you only write of this...unknowable diety?"
I replied:
"My friend, there is no one that I know, of Whom, I have more certainty."
At this, he sat astonished,
And I, in solitude, finished my sonnet.

The Survival of Mysticism

I have traveled most extensively,
And seen to my minds extent.
Rambled and wandered pensively,
With a propensity to lament.

Groping for the lady, dainty drawn by expectation.
Meeting failure constantly, a friend to all frustration.

I cried, “Oh heart, she doth not exist–
Dumb your hopes, be realistic.
There’ll be no perfect dream like twist,
and so, nearly died in me the mystic.

And settled, I, into a life of complete necessity.
Once there you took no extra time, oh blessed brevity.

It took me doing only that
Which– simply– I had to do.
The willingness was enough in fact,
Perfunctorily, I was rescued by you.

I’d yet to show that I was worthy to seek a place with a love so fair.
Now you and I, are to become one, and surely I am there.

And Now the Land...

And now the land has made itself known to me,
Time and observance having provided the introduction,
Love instilled in me humility,
And allowed community the instruction.

Life and creation bursting forth upon my eyes,
Patience and solitude producing reflections,
Which illuminate like the fire flies,
In the dark fields of Elizabethton.