Poetry
P
OETRY must be as new as foam,
And as old as the rock,” a philosopher once
said.
His words still ring across the centuries
To listening poets though he long be dead.
“As new as foam,” O words of mine, break white
And fresh and clean upon the shores of time;
May they be drawn from the unmeasured, deep
Ocean of life with its rhythm and its rhyme.
And may they be as old as the rocky cliffs
On which they leap and burst with ecstasy,
And may they hold the granite strength of truth
In their upward climb above life’s lashing sea.
“As new as foam,” as new and fresh as dawn,
Yet “old as the rock,” O pen of mine, flow on!
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