I.
Where are the heroes lain,
those valiants whose deeds are now forgot?
Have they perished in vain--
is oblivion at our hands, their lot?
Where are the heroes lain?
In fallow, unmarked graves along the way,
or interred with the respect due their pain
for us endured, for this future day?
Be not deceived--to them it matters not,
for we can nothing for them do;
theyÕre not here amidst the rot--
to Heaven they've gone, and bid us Adieu!
The honor we pay them, or omit,
'tis no reflection on them as they lay;
rather, 'tis only a mirror of our own composite,
clearly revealed in light of day!
Men honor that which they understand,
that with which they can identify--
in days of old, brave men would stand
in honor of those who for them die!
Courage to sacrifice for principle,
for family and friends,
made these valiants invincible,
and honored unto earth's ends!
No greater love hath man than this,
that he give his life for another--
craven darkness' antithesis,
nobility of soul no clay can cover!
Yet if men honor this not, even for the Lord,
what chance for fellow man?
Perhaps only those who share the golden cord
may respect the race they ran.
Their nobility's today disbelieved,
by base, weak humanity,
but they're deceived
in their insipid insanity!
Men today feel no shame
that they, heroic sacrifices honor not,
that heroes' memories they maim,
that what was given for us to live, is forgot!
Even more, if we today fail to profit
from lessons they died that we might learn,
we render for naught, their forfeit,
and far more than just them spurn!
II.
Do you not know for whom Roland's horn blew?
It blew for you!
Do you not know that the prize of Socrates
is found in every thinking man who breathes?
Do you not know that One pure died
on the cross, with lance in His side,
that we today might yet live,
that the Father, our sins might forgive?
III.
Where are the heroes lain?
In graves by us forgot,
or are they in our hearts inlain?
Our answer defines our lot!
After the ball is over,
after the freshness of joys is through,
is infatuation now over,
or do you now blossom as a flower, after lifts the morning dew?
Verily, all choose,
whether to shrivel or fully live,
whether to win or lose,
whether to receive what love can give!
How magnificent, the flowered rose
in the lingering light of day;
how wonderful it's matured scent, to the nose
of he who's abided for its full display!
Infatuation's as the morning dew,
and but awakens the flower to bloom,
to enrich life with it;s wonderous imbue,
ageless and impervious to time's bitter consume!
'Ere I've read a single verse of thine,
I've seen acuity, and sensitivity, so fine,
but shackled, 'prisoned in chains of conventionality,
unfree to experience or see, with fullest perspicacity,
or feel with undampened vividity,
so cannot express the essences as thou wishest them to be.
Poet, thou must free as the eagle soar!
Thou must leave all behind at the door--
all conventions, inhibitions, and definitions, with the crowd's roar,
and all of thy fears as well, which strike at thy core!
Then mayest thou seek and feel, anew, truths to adore,
and may their purest essences explore!
Poetry's written more in feelings, than in words to read--
it's the distillation of purest essences of life, to feeling's seed!
It's the verbal expression of pure, intense feelings in thy soul's wake,
on thy sensitized, exploratory journey through life, thou dost make!
Experience and feeling, dampened or inhibited, are but ennui,
and can only in diluted, impure essences, expressed be.
Poet, thy heart and soul are beauteous as can be!
Wilt thy flesh, and thy learned restraints, yield their mastery?
Rally thy heart's and soul's courage, for they, better be--
throw off thy fear, thine insecurity, and arise, proudly free!
Be free of the tyranny of middle-class mediocrity,
for a divinely inspired artist thou be!
Arise, break the chains of timidity!
Break the chains of thine insecurity!
Break the chains of conventionality!
Break the chains of false modesty!
See, experience, and feel, dangerously free,
and then the poet, hiding in thy heart, will be!!!
I dream not, of Anabel Lee,
or of surging, briny sea;
I dream of still waters, in tempest's lee,
of green pastures, and what life could be!
What is one to say to one who grieves,
who's lost a dearly beloved one,
who's anguish and pain, naught relieves,
who only wishes death be undone?
How may we understand, how grieves the departed
for the one who's left here behind,
who's awakening and free life's not yet started,
who cannot see because they're yet blind?
We see e'er so dimly,
but comes the day, face to face,
the heavenly joys we'll together know, eternally,
as we, together, wonderous mysteries embrace!
Is my heart so small
it can love only one,
only one 'dear' call,
just because most love none???
Through the gray, and setting day,
shines yet of hope, a ray,
for life IS hope, not yet gone away!
By the clock we obsess,
counting intervals instead of living them--
the modern, dehumanized notion of success,
in a world growing tragically dim!
Hate is not Love's opposite,
for both are of Passion's composite--
the opposite is Indifference, Apathy,
Passion's total atrophy!
Inexorable time, thy victory's incomplete,
for e'en when winter's deep,
our days in the sun, we may repeat,
in memory's tender keep!
