Selfish

I could dream a dream, of fairy tale bliss—

Of dragon, of knight, of a princess’s kiss.

Caught in falsehood, that will never wilt

I could walk upon the Eden I have built.

And if I could create the sea and land,

 I would hold the fairest hand—

Oh, but what a selfish dream,

That I dare not ever begin to scheme.

I could pluck the brightest star from the sky—

And keep it so that it may never die…

But what of the travelers blind by night,

Fumbling through the dark, with stolen sight?

I could dream a dream of selfish pride,

Of greed, of envy, of all I hide—

But sleep—a dream—cannot be pure

Beneath a spell, cast without a cure.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Gentle

There is a heart so gentle, that if

Described as a physical sensation,

It would certainly be subtle elation,

So tender it may go without notice—

Like a butterfly among a snowstorm

Or a candle to a starlit form.

This heart encapsulates such kindness

That it makes acts of altruism appear

As gestures of greed by the sincere—

Charity becomes a motion for criminals

And sinners to perpetuate evil ways,

In contrast to the heart I appraise.

If there is a colour that can elucidate

Her soft touch, it is gold, but alas

That shade appears an earthly brass

When held to her heart—leading me

To believe that there is no metaphor,

To describe her…Yes, I’m sure. 
    DannYetman
www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

The Swans

In my hand I hold the hymn of all I’ve loved—

The decisive melody surely wrote to play me off.

There is no laudation left, or lust to reminisce,

Just longing, built of dreams I’ll surely miss,

Masterpieces mangled into a script of mindless quests.

My heart has struck and now I hear the swans,

Synchronized in a sorrowed song representing

The annihilation of all I’ve loved—all that’s gone.

Serenaded in the darkness, I stand witness

To the curtains upon my head, and I watch

The lights go out, myself, held in a listless cage.

My tears wed the page I hold as I look back

At the path from which I’ve came—

The forested trail which will never lead me home.

I have followed my heart and been led astray,

Deeper and deeper into the heart of night.

    DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

I Held The Light

I held the light, in a kerosene lantern—

It slipped through my hand—flames crept upon me,

The walls unfurled before I thought to walk away.

But in a fabulous unravelment of fortuitous events,

I remained unscarred, to step out of the fray

I was bound within, and found myself starting off to sea.

From the island I was on—the sun lit my skin

And seared the sole palm shading me.

So I sought to construct a raft, to sail at last,

But the winds blew me astray, and I washed ashore

To a foreign land, where the desert was vast

And I prayed for a boreal forest, or at least a tree.

But somewhere along my endless plight,

I fell right through the grains of sand,

Down… Down… Down… Futility grasping

The nothingness all around me.

With a thud, I was grounded—gasping—

For I was back in the box I first began.

And in that room, sat a kerosene lamp—

A precarious surface which I held tight.

I keep it locked within an amorous embrace,

Fearful of the folly I would be met with

Should the flame—the single wisp—displace

In the darkness—on that day—I held the light,

The Flower

For it seems, I did not steal a passing glance

To keep with me through summer’s trance—

I let my line of sight caress the bricks’ history,

The bloodied tale that I sought to create—

The unravelled cover of a shrouded mystery.

I did not waver, upon my callous endeavour,

Hopeful the image held would last forever—

For perhaps, during the moment, I was akin

To a kindly sort, two hundred years my senior—

Who also denied the courtyard’s grin.

And the chickadees cuddled within the wings

Of a flowered tree surely built for kings.

Perhaps the wistfulness I felt was from doubt,

Etched into the stones beneath my feet,

And the unbudded lilies which would come about.

From Gargoyled creatures came a moaning,

Of all the secrets held, the pensive droning

Poised to be added to the storybook—

A staple of melancholic attitude adhered to

Beneath brevity and a breathless look.

Adjacent to the brick, I have become the lore,

Among the nameless who have walked before.

I did not break my eyes from the unfledged tower,

For I could not bear to brood upon the serenity,

Of the garden’s one and only flower.

    DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com 

The Path

The first time I held her hand was happenstance,

Near where the dandelions grew along the track—

Golden florets of forgotten pastures, in romance,

Amidst the city of voiceless wanderers that swayed,

Silently in the salient evening made.

I outstretched my arm, caught in the contrast

That came from the rocks beneath our feet,

For I must mention now, it was the overcast

And rain that slickened the path we wished to trot—

Even so, in my eyes, the sun was not forgot.

Our fingers neither intertwined nor convoluted

But found satiety when gripped in a gentle gesture

Which made it apparent, my heart was muted.

For a moment my words would not align

Assimilated with emotion I dare not define.

Never has my hand felt more out of place,

A fumbling grasp beneath her finesse—

An earthly entanglement against her grace.

The first time I held her hand left me fervent,

And completely aghast, without intent. 

    DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

The Lighthouse

While the waves wash away each sullen thought,

The happiness remains by happenstance.

Gulls call to me, reminiscing of the tide that came,

And far too soon, came to pass.

By my feet, the shells I’ve always sought lay

In ruins, lamented by my largely oversorrowed heart—

And as I gawk at the cormorants afloat, they giggle,

Wishing to glut of the fish they’ve brought.

But upon my trek—the tragic tale of self-tribulation—

I failed to find the hindered soul that I’ve searched

So long to call my own.

For what I desire truly, is to feel the barnacles beneath

My feet, callouses abash to the scornful scraping

I sense would contrast completely with the flesh,

That has remained unscarred for far too long.

The rumbling, sinusoidal rustling of the ravaged ocean

Screams to me and I’m left with the lasting impression

That my heart will always have a knack for knowing

Of the treasures deep beneath the sand.

I dream of taking my personified longing by the hand—

Helping to epitomize the conquest for lust that exists,

Perhaps only in my eyes.

But by the sea of soulless wanders, I walk among

The men who babble beneath the waves.

With these ghosts that gather, I have gained respect

For each and every heart that beats.

     DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com