For Once, Then, Frost

Dear Mister Frost, I find myself

In need of that deep well,

At whose own curb you once would kneel

To see what it would tell.

But having once at well-curbs knelt

And found to my chagrin,

I had to look so far beneath

The well-curb bruised my chin,

Thus, though in summer heaven, I

so godlike did appear,

I did not have the chin to be

What you might call, a seer.

But now, dear Frost, I'm back again

To see what I can find:

A pebble, or a piece of quartz,

Or something of that kind.

I seek the wisdom of the well

Who once gave something back.

A well, as far as I can tell,

Who never yet did lack.

Beyond the surface, dear, old Frost

I seek to counsel deep,

Yet all I've see are rippling jests,

That lulled me off to sleep.

Now in this hour of great distress

Beneath the shimmer dwell

The answers to my golden quest -

Oh, please entreat that well!

For truly, Frost, I know you saw

For once, then, something there,

So let no drop nor puff of cloud

Impede what you can share.

The shining water, all too clear,

Reflects back only me.

And though I try to see beyond,

I'm all that I can see.

______________________________

Copyright © 2010 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved

If it be thou

The waves rise up and toss against the boat.

The storm and tempest rage.

Not just from fear, I hide amidst my coat,

But also from his wage.

The wind will not, as much as I refuse,

Relent its vicious cry,

But thunders on, in vengeance and abuse,

My battered soul to try.

And to accuse, the rain and sleet and hail,

Descend upon me now.

With untold force, they crash against my sail,

They will that I should bow.

So in the deep, as lightning strikes with pow'r,

I sink into the sea.

Just praying in this last and lonely hour,

That He will rescue me.

______________________________

Copyright © 2010 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved

Sonnet 10

Today I met a girl with pretty eyes,

Dark hair and something shining from within

But often pretty eyes tell pretty lies

That lead one in the ways of wanton sin.

Now, as a man, of course, I paid no heed

For pretty eyes can ne'er my heart deceive

And so as Reason left upon his steed

I could not, from her presence, take my leave

Nor wished I to, not now nor e'er again.

Instead I reached my hand up to her cheek

And brushed her hair back from her eyes to gain

A deeper look, to see if they would speak,

And speak they did, those pretty, pretty eyes,

They told me only lies and lies and lies.

______________________________

I don't know what the intention of this was.

Copyright © 2010 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved

A Mite

I thought I would write…

I wanted to write

But no words came

Except to indict.

I thought I was right…

I may still be right

But the words are the same

And blacken the night.

I thought of the rite…

Was there a rite?

But the words are a name

That blinded my sight.

I thought of my right…

Yet it was no right

But the words to my shame

Brought darkness to light.

And now that I write…

The thoughts that I write

My words, in their aim,

Are worth just a mite.

______________________________

This isn't great, but it's something for now.

Copyright © 2010 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved