by Thomas Davis
Eyes scudded dark, a roiling rage of storm,
The poet stood upon gray rock, the roar
Of boiling waves the cruciform
Of time, the slates of history a lore
Long lost, but still inside the chanting names
That sang a weaving with the waves.
The poet waves his arms. His presence claims
The past. He reaches past the earth of graves
And strains to bring the fire of poetry
From campfires blazing in forgotten nights
Beside the ferment of a Celtic sea
Onto a wild Wisconsin shore, old rites
Engendering a music mad with winds
That spills through words, a storm that never ends.
fourwindowspress 
What a joy to read on the rainy desert morning.
Kenne, I am glad to hear it’s raining. I was just in Crownpoint, NM, and it was really really dry. I hope you are well.
The search for poetry has brought you back to these blogging shores also, to regale us once again with your inimitable bardic voice. A joy, indeed.
To read the work of a true poet is a joy. And you are!
As Ina said – it’s a joy to read the work of a true poet like yourself, Thomas.
I liked – and “Like”d – this on first acquaintance, but held back from comment until I had time to reflect, ponder and savour.
You conjure here linked images, lifting the reader beyond conventional time, as bards have forever boldly dared, while same time feeling themselves compelled so to do. Within your poet’s bardic soul, and therefore ours, commingle ancient past and wave-cresting present; a gift for all who catch the echo of crashing waves and crackling fires.
Those two last lines are just wonderful Thomas
Glorious, Tom. Thank you for sharing this with us, N.