Poetry
by Robert Cameron Hazelton
Renaissance
I long to see the hyacinth anon
imparting salutations breezily
and breathe the sweet cologne that wafts upon
invigorating gusts that easily
dispel the winter doldrums dragging on,
accumulating drifts inside of me.
I pull my collar up to warm my chin
in lieu of golden kisses on my skin.
As angles change, the chance to see protracts
but only if a pupil seeks the truth,
hallucinations often pose as facts
when altered by the heady state of youth
and even sully patronizing pacts
of those a little longer in the tooth
that hide behind their overweening grin
denial of the emptiness within.
We all require temperate climes to bloom
and solid clay to hold us tenderly
when certain days of unexpected gloom
precipitate their misty misery,
and if tomorrow brings my final doom
I'll face the end with much felicity
unburdened by my mitigated sin,
as haunting hints of hyacinth begin
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Bloom
Beside the stout portcullis grows
a barely open crimson rose
awaiting that one perfect nose.
Each day as folks commiserate
like cattle plodding through the gate
this lonely flower stays sedate,
for destiny will soon appear:
a suitor smiling ear to ear
to clip a dashing boutonniere;
perhaps a buxom maiden fair
will shyly pluck with tender care
a blossom for her flowing hair.
It happens to the most sublime
so many dreams, so little time
as blushing pride succumbs to rime.
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Cultured
Narcissus is certain
her helix ingrains
the rosiest tulips
the garden contains-
but lily's a lady
immune to the plot
who needs not belabor
the something she's got.
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© Robert Cameron Hazelton
2008
Robert Cameron Hazelton lives
in Amsterdam, New York and writes the poetry blog Average
Poet.
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