To Sailor's eyes, give harbor after storm.
To Soldier's legs, give rest at home fires-warm.
To Mother's hearts, give children happ'ly play'ng.
To Farmer's hands, give land that grows good grain.
To everything, give what it most does prize
For me 'twould be the love that's in your eyes.

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Of Kisses Lent.

From snow made bows the bolts of dawn 
do pierce the moss-made luscious lawn.

The jewels of dew do slip and bend 
from top and end of flowered fen.

Freed seedlings ride upon the winds, 
create new kin, they spin, descend.

The ivy climbs both high and slim 
and winds its way around the limb.

This poor list names with good intent
your soft and kindly kisses lent.

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In Appreciation of Nature. 

Tho' weak the gentle rain may strike the ground
It smites the earth deceptively and wins.
For little yet more powerful is found
That can control our life and all within.
The sun 'tis felt with warmth and radiance
Yet light is blocked by leaf or airy cloud
In darkness lies the death of all we chance
In light does grow the future we've endowed.
Each little thing that lends its strength to life
When joined presents most notable a cause.
So we, though tiny in our days, do strive
To make great change with love to ease our flaws.
We owe for this good life that we've been lent.
With loving days give payment to the rent.

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Sins and Forgivance.

For all my wrongs, let me, in truth, repent.
For all the shortfalls and the efforts failed.
For every callow cowardice unmeant.
For every shallow deed and anger railed.

For each time that my temper-hot has flared
For every time an oath has been forgot.
For each time I've condemned for deeds I dared.
For all the learning that has come to naught.

These sins and errors have enough recalled
The list of debt that I must soon erase.
For since decline can never be forestalled
I must amend my sinning with some grace.

Let shine alone this beacon light most sure.
My love, if nothing else, was good and pure.

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Great Prizes, Small Seeds.

The rain does softly patter as it falls
Yet view the growth of rivers and the seas.
Tho' gentle is the sun that warms our halls
Take light from us and know how soon we'd die.
The tree, when young, takes root within the stone.
At age, the rock is split by root's firm grasp.
The hardest steel the smithy may yet own
Is shaped and softened by the worker's rasp.
Each babe, so small that hands may be the crib
Each foal, so frail a breath may take its stand
Each word ascribed by tiny feathered nib
May like a prayer make miracles at hand.
From unassuming seeds do orchards grow.
How ever love so prospers, we will know.

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The Test of Inspiration.

When armor's new, and sweat is yet to run
When Horses have no mud upon their length.
When sword is newly edged with no harm done
How easy is the rough made boast of strength.

When on the chart, how little are the foe.
When night is hung, how brave the deeds of dawn.
When breakfasting, "the master of the blow".
How quick the face of day will make these gone.

In battle, let the truth alone be strong
Inspired by skillful mastery of art.
Let years of effort, trial and test belong
To those that have the noblest of heart.

Let me in boast be silent and unheard.
My sword shall speak my inspiration's word.

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Of Walks in the Wood. 

As ebon eve embraces twilight's veils.
And orchestrated choruses of night
Begin their woven thicket songs and tales
We'll wend our way among this lovely sight.
Our hearing fills with flutt'ring rain-dropped sounds
Our sight disguises shadows wrapped with grays.
Aromas mix like sweet herbs freshly ground
The skin alive 'gainst textured evening ways.
As dawn upon the waters of still lakes
And earth new turned, with tangled roots enlaced
This living cool replaces what pain takes
And leaves a living beauty in its place.
When shared with you, this green-filled gentle vale,
This forest park, presents renewing grail.

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The Harbor in the Fen.

All forests have a multitude of gift
To prize the forester if they well tend
This treasure hid. Its talent is to lift
The seeker's spirit and its peace to lend.
For forests are a harbor in the fen
The bustle of its life competes, contends
For far atop the highest reaching limb
To deep below the soil where roots do wend.
And wearing ages as an oft worn cloak
This wood does share its many layered lives.
The riches here enshrined are strong like oak
Well solid and protected as it thrives.
Our lives are like this wood, in strength we grow.
Days layered smooth with leaves are how we go.

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All poems (c) copyright 1995 by GregRobin Smith Printed by Nopress Inparticular Bokes. 

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All my works and these pages are (c) 1995-1998 by GregRobin Smith. Re-print and serial rights are available, contact GregRobin for details. 

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