I've been revisiting old poems and discovering how little I've changed even if my poetry has advanced. (I hope.) LOL. I found this one, written when I was nineteen:
<dir>Searching for God, but Finding a Man
Heavenward I cast my eyes -- at varied skies
immersed in Storm's tumultuous roars
or Summer's empty, cloudless guise;
I see the stars at horizon's shores,
of Night's entombèd ocean floors,
but have not found since I began
aught more than I through Heaven's doors:
searching for God, but finding a man.
I reduce my gaze is scope and size
and see those gods a poet adores,
those greats who write, philosophize,
Thoreaus and Poes, the Frosts and Moores
our world has known and knows, the Thors
who forged their words with mortal hand;
yet above them all, Emerson soars:
searching for God, but finding a man.
Waldo's gone -- a prophet dies --
and, sightless, I hold his lores
and teachings tight to fight the lies
of proselytizing carnivores,
to navigate the murky moors
of being, of life; I cross that span,
discover there my Self, my core:
searching for God, but finding a man.
In all of Earth, through peace and wars,
all souls may rest better than I can,
who forever pores through Wisdom's stores,
searching for God, but finding a man.</dir>
***
One day earlier, I had written this little thing:
<dir>A Dead Poet
A vision dark, bedeviled heart
paved his ways and stole his days,
bent his rays and shaped his art,
became his bride, a Mr. Hyde.
Lord
Lord help
Lord help my
Lord help my poor
Lord help my poor soul.
So said Poe,
and so he died.</dir>
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