I put the broken pieces of my heart
Into a dish of gold and diamonds hard
But metal is no match for flesh
And hearts don’t need a fancy dish
So now I hold them gently, though I smart.
The pain’s familiar yet it seems more raw.
Like tigers scratching me with sharpest claws.
Oh.god give me some grace today
For as it is I cannot pray.
And death hangs over with its open maw
Look at this and read carefully
Portrait of John Dryden (1631-1700) by Gérard Edelinck after Godfrey Kneller (1646-1723) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
A Poem by Coyote Poetry
Poesy
(For Dryden)
True Poets dodge the fakeness of fame.
They allow praise to fall from their thoughts.
Old Poets understand the beauty of the sun rising from the east.
Allowing opportunity for new dreams and new places to come alive.
They enjoy watching the sun falling into the western sea.
Allowing the night to overcome the excitement of the day.
A wise Poet behold the beauty of the woman.
Tried to describe the softness of her skin and the feel
of her warm sweet kisses.
The Poet must feel the burden of war.
A writer must taste and know death, poverty and suffering.
A empty journey leave nothing for the pen and the paper.
Writers are…
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I tried to inculcate a love of words
and mathematics up to graphs and surds.
But pussy was not keen on that
in fact, I think he smelled a rat
And now he’s run away to watch the birds.
I tried to teach him how to eat in style
And clean his teeth and give up habits vile.
But he would not cooperate
His yowling got me in a state.
So now at last I’ve run at least a mile
How my heart sings 