Canadas at Home: Mark's Poetry

Although I have been writing creatively since my days in grammar school, when I specialized in the underappreciated genre of game show parody, I don't write much poetry. I just don't have the patience for it. I prefer prose, which comes more easily. Nonetheless, over the past few years, I have managed to wrack my brain long enough to write a couple of poems about my daughter, Esprit. Here they are.

My Esprit Nueva

Shadows linger, and I, their source, have grown
Accustomed to the night. For here I've been
A blissful man at home, a denizen,
Who sees and knows the world by shades alone.
The dim but graceful evenings I have known
Are gentle mothers bathing me who then,
Still gentle, lay me down on down. Few men
Have seen what I have seen by stars alone.
Morning? Morning bursts upon my eyes
A blazing, shimmering something new that you,
You, my morning messenger, bring. I rise.
What wondrous new life is this? What new
Spirit are you? am I? O! so bright
We are and, see, all the earth is light.

Vers Libre

Drafted above, revised below,
A work in progress, she
Resides within my heart and mind,
My masterpiece-to-be.

A poem, I think, would suit her best,
But perhaps she needs the stage,
For though I've tried to put her down,
She won't stay on the page.

Musical with a touch of farce,
A starlet in her prime,
She could become both play and cast,
But for the chains of time.

A sculpted bronze would surely last
And every eye would thrill.
I can almost see her standing there,
But no, not standing still.

Too large for frame or pedestal,
Too full to play a part,
Esprit belongs out in the world,
My living work of art.