Poetry helps me to pass the time;
when I get bored, then I churn out rhyme.
I've had some published 'cross the ocean;
those Yanks are suckers for emotion.

I know my verse is gauche and gushing,
enough to burn your cheeks from blushing,
but dirty laundry gets no airing,
and on my page there's seldom swearing.

Poetry is the art of showing
that beauty's all around us growing,
It’s like a river, ever streaming,
flowing deeper than sleeper’s dreaming.

As horns from the orchestra silence,
And stillness is felt in the air;
The bows of the strings move together,
And play as if God were there.

A lush sound of celli infusing
The theme that the violins play;
While each note that’s played and suspended,
Takes everyone’s breath away.

Then up from the glorious rapture,
With tones that are all heaven sent;
The sound of the english horn rises
And pours out its dark lament.

Ah, the mighty are falling
Their swords return and lay upon their fragile necks
The grasses cover their crack armours
And their helmets roll and turn over helplessly,
Their rifles kiss the blood of the slain
Before their bullets turn back at them
And carry their souls to the dead land.

Where are your rushing to?
Why are you running faster?
Stop, the sweet blood
Return to your vessel
And flow through your routes
Why have you slain this august year?
For anguish is come upon us.

I never walked you home from school,
Nor did I tote your books.
And I never sat with you in class,
Spellbound by your good looks.

I never watched you walk the halls,
Or heard you laugh or sigh.
And I never felt my envy rise,
Were you with some other guy.

I never took you to the prom,
Or asked you for a date.
And I never had to tell your dad,
Why I brought you home so late.

We grew up in different times,
And in places far apart.
And had God Himself not intervened,
You would not have won my heart.