The plaintive wail of a child through the night
Is a beastly howl, proclaiming its plight.
The song of the wind through fractured grasses
Echoes my tread on edge of disasters.

This may be one fine way of singing it
Life, death, love is the blood of the poet.
We make beauty beside a dark abyss.
We make something new from a light caress.

Then we eagerly grasp tithes of the field
Residues of life; weapons that we wield
Against unreal distortions of the world,
Things that won’t leave humanity unfurled.

May I remain the way I was always,
A boy alone, left to his dreamy days.

 

Mike Scheidemann:

Former President: Voices-The Israel English Poetry Association. (17 years) http://www.voicesisrael.com/

Senior Coordinator:  The World Congress of Poets; Haifa, Israel (1992), sponsored by The World Academy of Arts & Culture & UNESCO. 

I have published four anthologies of poetry.  I live on Kibbutz Yizre’el  and I have devoted my life to Socialism & literature.

 

This poem is among the entries for the Society of Classical Poets’ 2012 Poetry Competition.

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