you mesmerize

true so true
your words and to remember, the little lesson of the red engine
that with his words...
i think i can, i think i can
all of the mountain
can be held in the smallest of hand....
though the lesson of rhyme
i think i stretched and modified it to fit
my art, for my rhyme, less wit
I do seek that laughter
the bright and musical chuckle to which you referred
but less of late the simple has occurred.
I read upon your rhyme and your word
how you mesmerize, you captivate
the lines,
dutifully and beautifully, you, quickly slate.
the education of this lady
I must know, for...
what seems probably trite,
quick and effortless
comes to pass
so erudite.
I jest not...
I must know, the color green
if within, my presence would not take the marvel
of a new fangled glass to be seem.
away with the modern gadgets of our time...
pleasure me more,
and this green, a sin
i will, if you abide
back within I will hide
so please begin again and again.
Hard it becomes
to stay in character..
in the knightly role i modestly
but hopefully craftily play,
in balance does the fulcrum
force the hand
and that fate has foiled each and every of this mortal's plan
less the smiles and that laughter
to bring on sweet everlasting bliss.
I marvel at your mind
and as I have made my path
on this road of life
never have I crossed or been blessed to meet
one wiser and most knowledgeable in the arenas that I humbly seek.
not since my youth have i so wanted to pen
my group that i would sit and stroll
like that of Keats and Shelley
music and folly
purposefully we would write our lines.
yesteryear has past as with the jolly
as my age did come more mature
writing its purpose became less the lure
journals and my coined booked
fast they drew dust for no time I took.
my mystery of the word and passion for marvel and love
the mundane of people and world
oh it has been just too plain.
no more visits did I to the world of books.
to read love letters and rhyme forms
from a lady and a gent,
Mary and Percy Blythe
Victorian ideas and to all they represent.
lost and never did I think of them to return.
my secret love of the medieval
and the white and dark magic
potion, spells and black evils
Lancelot and Arthur
Uther Pendragon
and the unfolding of Morgana and Merlyn
and the never ending of wizardry and dread
or the plotting of the said, Mordred.
if I were to show you all on my favorites
how for years they have marked spot after spot.
from the folding of metal to possess a sword
one as what was place deep within the pillar of mystical stone
from the simple of gathering hidden colorful rocks
the power of water
the worship of Mother Earth and the alignments of Her Sweet Moon.
yet as said before never have I come close or remotely have met
one as you so woven in passions
who’s mind is as me, askew.
people and person’s have laughed and made fun
even made me the center of puns
and now to find a woman, Sweet Lady
from out of no where she arrives and still I know not from
but with pen and crafty and lingering rhyme
a common bond and the make believe has made her
briefly in the hidden of moments of dark
steadfastly mine.
so you see
to me and my pen
you, Lady Morgan,
I find you a freshness
the whimsical and anew
you have drawn out of me
passions so hidden and deep.
they could compare to the crystal of a cave
and the years that Merlyn did his big sleep.