This poem seemed to take forever to write… Not only is the rhyming scheme unfamiliar and therefore, a test of my skill but the format I was trying to follow for the subject, was intimidating at times. The main purpose of this poem was to work on my descriptive skills again – much like Real or a Dream. I’m not sure if I like this one or not. It almost seems… I don’t know – lacking in something… As with the other poem – this isn’t a real experience. I did take ideas of appearance of the characters from some people that I know but most of it was my imagination. What do you all think? Any ideas or should I leave it as is?
Walking down the street, known as Hidden lane,
I stumbled on a house large and old.
The mist around it rose, like a veil that somehow grows
En-wrapping me in with it in it’s folds.
The wind blew quick and sharp about me
With a murmur soft and far from strong.
As I drew near to the house, quiet as a mouse,
To a glass pane, as wide as it was long.
I peeped through the window to my surprise,
By the fire an aged man sat.
He stared at the flames, who made so many claims,
On the log were they danced and then sat.
The frolicking flames danced a line, then a waltz,
And then fell as if exhausted by play.
Then up once again, like young ladies and men,
Ready to keep frosty cold far away.
I turned my attention to the man in the chair
And observed on his head, quite a crown,
Of hair curled and white – it was quite a grand sight! –
T’was the oldest in the whole town.
His eyes were like embers, still burning and bright,
Though half hidden in trenches so deep.
At times the lids closed, as if seeking repose
And I could not say if he was asleep.
His nose, if I were to tell you quite the truth,
Was quite larger than you might expect.
His mouth a thin line, of a frown not a sign,
Nor I doubt didst one he ever erect.
A smile though slight, illumined his face,
Adding a soft sweetness thereto.
As I gazed on this sight, I realized though slight,
Of white whiskers, he had quite a few.
His skin was quite wrinkled, round his smoldering eyes,
And lines ran from his mouth to his chin.
His long hands in his lap, once made a light clap,
As though some great triumph were transporting him.
I suddenly thought, t’was really quite sad,
To be thus old and alone.
For it really appears, that a man of his years,
Might have wisdom that should become known.
But in one major thread of my pitying thoughts
I was indeed, completely wrong.
For a sweet, gentle tone, reached above the wind’s moan,
Swelling to a beautiful old song.
I leaned farther forward, trying to catch a small glimpse,
Of the singer, whose voice I had heard.
A girl of thirteen, sat in the firelight sheen,
Her voice high and clear like a bird.
On her lap lay a Bible, of which I quickly surmised,
She had just finished reading aloud,
For the murmur I had heard, through the wind that still stirred,
Through the tempest it no longer plowed.
As she finished the song, there entered the room,
A young man of perhaps twenty-three.
With a baby quite new and a girl not quite two,
He sat near to the old man’s knee.
Close on his heels, was a man and a woman,
Who entered the room hand in hand.
From their age and their look, I don’t think I mistook,
When deciding they were the parents of the girl and the man.
Then lastly there came, a lovely young woman,
Who drew near to the old man as well.
And while I did linger, I saw a ring on her finger,
Which with her behavior, her identity did tell.
They gathered together, in a tight loving group
Round the fire, that still danced and shone,
A moment of speech, about a decision to reach,
And then in harmonious song, their voices were known.
As they began to raise up, their voices in the hymn,
I decided, by the window, no longer to stay.
And as I slowly went, the wind quickly sent,
The voices of song, drifting away.
To the KING be all the glory!
