Poetry on Sunday
I was trying to think of a poem for today, and I found this one by Victor Buono, from his book, It Could Be Verse.
When flowers doze upon their lonely beds
And oaken sentries nod their noble heads
And piney cushions snug the cuddled fawns
And dewy gems bejewel the dreaming lawns,
I sit and wait in patience born of pain
For some sweet sonnet to ignite my brain.
And as Aurora lifts her rosey veil
My muse approaches - haggard, had and pale.
Fetid, fingered, rancid, rank and frowzy,
No wonder all my poetry is lousy.
When flowers doze upon their lonely beds
And oaken sentries nod their noble heads
And piney cushions snug the cuddled fawns
And dewy gems bejewel the dreaming lawns,
I sit and wait in patience born of pain
For some sweet sonnet to ignite my brain.
And as Aurora lifts her rosey veil
My muse approaches - haggard, had and pale.
Fetid, fingered, rancid, rank and frowzy,
No wonder all my poetry is lousy.
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