Three Poems Given as Christmas Gifts (2006)

To Julia, in a volume of Lord of the Rings

Remember when, reclined on father's chest,
Or snug by mother's side, this cover turned,
And lo!  It was Hobbiton!   So did the quest
Begin.  How many fiery logs were burned

With Frodo, Sam, in halls of Rivendell
When Strider was revealed, and too the ring;
And how we gasped before Tom Bombadill
Had saved us from that horrid cryptic thing!

Adventures in the deeps of Khazad-dum
When Gandalf fell and shadows dimmed our eyes –
O horrible fate!  Then Boromir's fell doom:
A land of sorrow under gloaming skies.

But there was joy as well: with Legolas
And Gimli; horns of the Rohirrim
Wildly blowing!  Eowen, daughty lass!
Shield-maiden who withstood the Witchking grim.

Triumph to despair, to triumph again,
And tears with Sam and Frodo on the verge
Of Doom's abyss, when magma fell like rain
And flowed around, death looming on the surge.

Then later to the west: wistful farewells;
Unwelcome end, but earnest called the sea!
How long ago, yet still the memory swells
Today, of evenings spent so happily.

Perhaps one day, with children of your own,
By fire's side, you'll open wide this door
To Middle Earth, and they when they are grown,
And so these joys live on forevermore.




To Valerie, in a volume of Shelley and Keats

A book!  But no mere book: ten thousandfold
A portucullis to high poetry.
Beneath these gilded arches, joyful, bold,
Pass through to realms of lofty purity.
But hold!  Before you enter this fair land
Transcendent, home to all the sons of light,
Enwreathe yourself with ivy, take in hand
Bouquets of lilies, violets, pansies bright:
This is the realm of Flora: Spring eterne,
Where fair-eyed youths disport themselves at ease,
For all is joy where powers be to turn
Despondency to eminent thoughts which please.
So enter!  John and Percy now await
With high discourse in mankind's highest state.



To Mom, in a volume of Shakespeare

Proud Shakespeare, patron of the English tongue,
Still claims achievement's summit: Everest
Mere hillock quaint.  None come before have sung,
Nor after, of such truths so  well expressed.
Those objects of his thought too luminous,
To shield us, clothed in metaphors sublime
By layers on layers ambiguous,
Begat ideas discovering with time.
Thus doubly has he gifted humankind:
With thoughts profound, of insight incompared
To elevate the musings of the mind;
And made the richer during moments shared.
So take this book as if a promise made
To seek the mutual infinite in his shade.

       

   
   
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