Poetry Schmoetry

I managed to dredge up some old computer files and discovered a folder call "poetry."  To my disappointment, there was only one file in it (somewhere out in the electrons, there is an old disk with a hundred slip-shod poems from my college days).  The one file was a sonnet (or maybe just a quatorzain--it seems to be a little off in the rhyme scheme) written during my semester in Costa Rica.


I'll repeat a few words as qualifiers: "college days," "slip-shod," and "a little off." It is what it is.

Lake Atitlan

The Atitlan sits blue in mountain dell;

The sky above is clear and sweet with sun.

In quiet hillside town rings out the bell

To call to any dedicated one.

Confession of my sinning thoughts to eyes

More sweet than sun, more blue than the skies above.

Within the bells the playing music lies:

A pilgrim’s dance to your cathedral love.

Embrace in dance, close lips and feet find grace,

To hold you close and let you set the pace.

But kept too close you try to steal away

Spun widly from your arms’ embrace to stay

Cast out from Eden’s honey light and skies.

From other love I cannot take your eyes.