The Poetry of World War IV - 2

The Poetry of World War IV - 2
Christopher Bogart

2.
The Fisher King rests quietly on the rocks,
Arm outstretched with smile serene.
He casts his golden line
Upon the cold, blue waters.
He casts his silver net
To dredge seaweed and sand,
Metallic glimmering crystal clear,
Passing up the sands of time,
Slithering through the mud of doom.
His eyes can clearly see
Through cataracts of choice,
The dusting of clouds,
The atmospheric air,
The mists of brighter days,
The colors of a rainbowed sky.
And softly does the music lilt,
Drifting through the air,
Twisting and turning,
Coiling onward
From within and without,
Notes both sonorous and low,
Set in a minor key:
A lilting screech.
He does not hear.

3.
The water is silent and still.
The waves reached out to grasp the shore,
Falling out,
Receding back again.
The air is in abeyance of its pow’r.
It sprays a scent of salt,
The mark of its timelessness,
And its existence, in the air.
Two eyes peer out over the roll,
Their vision clear and salty,
Traveling on the cool night air.
Two eyes peer out to see a face,
Illuminate the mind with visions
Of the sun and one love shadow,
Shade of an ever-present memory.
Watch its long and slender form,
As it dances
Betwixt the sun and sand.
Watch the vision as it gives and takes.
It rises from the sea
And then recedes.
Watch, wonder, and be still.