The Daily Poem

REST IN PEACE

This day's gone gray and heavy on my chest,

A solar plexus anvil crushing through,

And so I lay this date to silent rest.

I've waited in my folded wing request

Not knowing what to say or what to do;

This day's gone gray and heavy on my chest.

I've said my puzzled pieces east and west

But all sure fitting words have ground askew,

And so I lay this date to silent rest.

I've plied the tearful waters of unrest;

My eyes your long mirage, my neck your shoe.

This day's gone gray and heavy on my chest.

I've stood unmoving on a whisper's crest,

One breath away from bidding hope adieu,

And so I lay this date to silent rest.

There's nothing more beyond my loyal best,

Except to carve your stone with nothing new.

This day's gone gray and heavy on my chest,

And so I lay this date to silent rest.

D. Edgar Lamp

TheDailyPoem715

Villanelle

Santee, California

JOURNAL: Mark & Kit's cottage in Leucadia

~ The Daily Poet

WE FALL TO RISE AGAIN

Compelled we stand to fight the wolf of pain,

Where men of valor fought and died before.

We stand to fall, we fall to rise again.

The earth gives way beneath what we attain;

Our courage counts in steps but little more.

Compelled we stand to fight the wolf of pain.

The wind awakens voices of the slain

To fill our ears with an empty howling roar.

We stand to fall, we fall to rise again.

The water drowns our breaths with whipping rain,

And the rivers froth us down upon the shore.

Compelled we stand to fight the wolf of pain.

The fire in our bellies, though it wanes,

Returns ferocious to the raging war.

We stand to fall, we fall to rise again.

The wounds of battle bleed but never drain

The deepest blood that feeds our purest core.

Compelled we stand to fight the wolf of pain;

We stand to fall, we fall to rise again.

D. Edgar Lamp

TheDailyPoem711

Villanelle

Lemoore, California

Lat: Long:

JOURNAL: Ellie's House

~ The Daily Poet

BORDER CROSSING

The border guards with sniffing dogs come through

Intent on finding what we've hid onboard.

It isn't me, I'm sure, but is it you?

Perhaps you left your contraband in view,

Just sitting there behind its bungee cord,

As the border guards with sniffing dogs come through.

Or did you fail to split your stash in two

For lack of sacks you couldn't quite afford.

It isn't me, I'm sure, but s it you?

Perhaps you'll drop your careless other shoe

Presuming through inspection you have soared

When border guards with sniffing dogs come through.

Or maybe someone savvy might see through

That flimsy faux-Nigerian drinking gourd.

It isn't me, I'm sure, but is it you?

So here we go, its poker face review.

Don't let your eyes reveal our hidden horde

As the border guards with sniffing dogs come through.

It isn't me, I'm sure, but is it you?

D. Edgar Lamp

TheDailyPoem578

Villanelle

Russia-Mongolia Border

JOURNAL: MOSCOW-BEIJING TRAIN (5)

Slept hrough te early morning traverse past Lake Baikal...

~ The Daily Poet

AFRICAN GRAY SCALE

The sun appears in gray degrees of dawn.

In Africa the mind concludes the best

While lesser birds in minor notes play on.

Reprieve upon reprieve the longest con

In patient curving spells festoons her nest.

The sun appears in gray degrees of dawn.

She trails her smoldered lip-encrypted spawn

Of teasing plumages bequeathing quest

While lesser birds in minor notes play on.

No beak or claw, her tapestry of fawn

Absorbs the cautious undertone of jest.

The sun appears in gray degrees of dawn.

Her multi-fluted drones unroll the lawn

Of open air in helical arrest

While lesser birds in minor notes play on.

So finally now with fibrillations gone

And lungs inspiring cornerstones of rest

The sun apears in gray degrees of dawn

While lesser birds in minor notes play on.

D. Edgar Lamp

The Daily Poem - 463

Villanelle

Moshi, Tanzania

Lat: Long:

THE DREAM OF MACHU PICCHU

From step to step the dream of strength was made

By men who carried reveries of air

Up shouldered heights until the stone was laid.

A solitude no rival could invade,

Where mighty men could prayerfully repair;

From step to step the dream of strength was made.

A road of chiseled purpose, grade by grade,

Ascended forest cliffs to a cloudy lair,

Up shouldered heights until the stone was laid.

A royal realm, a terraced palisade,

With fluting waters down cascading stairs;

From step to step the dream of strength was made.

A place of polished rock and guarded shade,

Constructed with an eye for noble flair,

Up shouldered heights until the stone was laid.

This sacred city lost and so decayed

Was found, and we its new begotten heirs;

From step to step the dream of strength is made,

Up shouldered heights until the stone is laid.

D. Edgar Lamp

The Daily Poem - 408

Villanelle

Machu Picchu, Peru

Lat: -13.16, Long: -72.55

JOURNAL: Hostal Pension Alemana Bed & Breakfast, Cusco

~ The Daily Poet

THE CANDLE IN YOUR HAND

The candle in your hand is all you hold,

When dark the night and weary wears the way,

To cloak you safe inside its shining gold.

What visions once with gleaming eyes foretold

Your endless upward climb have snuffed away,

The candle in your hand is all you hold.

Around you press the demi-ghouls of cold,

This light’s your only spark against the gray,

To cloak you safe inside its shining gold.

What help is there in memories of old,

The dim reflecting half-life of decay?

The candle in your hand is all you hold.

And how will dreams you conjure to unfold,

Unraveled by delay, exceed this small display

That cloaks you safe inside its shining gold.

Take hold, take hold, and with your light be bold.

Get up, move out, and charge the scattering fray.

The candle in your hand is all you hold,

To cloak you safe inside its shining gold.

D. Edgar Lamp

The Daily Poem - 380

Villanelle

Marigot, Dominica

Lat: 15.54, Long: -61.29

JOURNAL: Rashawna's House

Sick day.  Took a walk up Monkey Hill this morning, and another walk with Mimi down the Hill to the hardware store for wood glue, to the plant lady to buy a couple decorative plants, and to the shoe repairman to get her messenger bag strap fixed along with a couple pair of Rashawna's sandals.  Then we stepped into a little shack offering internet and fax services.  Three desktop computers, one copier and a fax machine.  The lady inside was well dressed and accommodating.  You'd never guess the civilized lives the Dominicans live in these these little squatter shanties.  Other than that, I've been in bed, drifting in and out of sleep with a heavy chest cold.

~ The Daily Poet

HUMAN SOUP

It’s like a big collective co-op group

Where everybody brings a bit to share

To boil up a pot of human soup.

We’ve got the bones of some unlikely troop

Who traipsed on in with their Elijah Ware

It’s like a big collective co-op group.

And then the skinny pagans with their goop

Come dancing up all grinning butt-cheek bare

To boil up a pot of human soup.

The clownish Toons toss in their Betty Boop

And stir their bubbliciousness with flare

It’s like a big collective co-op group.

The bureaucrats and business men recoup

The tax deducted morsels they can spare

To boil up a pot of human soup.

We each come round to peek a sniffing snoop

All dressed in flavored hats beyond compare

It’s like a big collective co-op group

To boil up a pot of human soup.

D. Edgar Lamp

The Daily Poem - 351

Villanelle

Toledo, Ohio

Lat: 41.66, Long: -83.56

JOURNAL: AmTrak in Sleeper

I woke up cold. Out the window in the dim light, I could see snow along the Mississippi, the train cruising only a stone’s throw from the riverbank. It was nearly 0600. Got up and dressed, and walked down to through the kitchen toward the observation car. Passed Lloyd in a narrow stretch and he warned me that the power was off in the entire train until St. Louis. The door slid open and a blast of arctic air rushed across my face and neck. I was glad I had my jacket on. I walked through finding a couple of brave souls wrapped up like burritos, their heads nothing but stray bits of carne asada sticking out from their warm wraps. Dean was up, hovering around the stairs, anxious no doubt for a smoke of his pipe. I went back to the thankful heat of our little nest in sleeping car 2230, room 12. Mimi was lightly snoring, and the sky was turning from white to grayish-blue; morning in St. Louis. Mimi woke up a few moments later and we watched the rail men disconnect the staff sleeper car, put it on a side track and link the engine back up to us so the electricity could flow back through the other five cars. Pulling into Union Station, we were electrified, and ready for breakfast.

We sat with Joan & Dean. Dean wears ear muffs and smokes a pipe on smoke breaks. Joan is a lithe and lively lady who always greets me with a smile when I pass her in the aisle. At first I thought they were husband and wife. Then I thought they were having a secret train rendezvous, but they were too old, and didn’t really seem “in love” enough for that. Finally I couldn’t resist and I asked them how they were related. Cousins. Who would have guessed. Their fathers were brothers. They’ve both been married with children, but both of their spouses have died, so they’ve consequently become fast friends. She has grandchildren, he great-grandchildren. His wife died about a year ago, as they were sitting in the living room watching TV. No warning. No complaint. No sound of any kind. When he looked over at her, she seemed asleep. When he tried to wake her for bed, he found that she was dead. She didn’t suffer. He was glad for that.

After breakfast I was suddenly very sleepy and decided to take a short nap. How luxurious it is to nap mid-morning after a wonderful meal. Two hours later Mimi woke me to say we were nearing Chicago. I looked out the window. “It’s looked just like that the whole time you’ve been sleeping,” Mimi said. Just snow covered fields with little farm houses. It seemed to take us forever creeping our way into Chicago’s Union Station. We put on our base layers and boots and both coats, stuffing hats and gloves into our pockets for later. We followed the arrows to the Sleepers Lounge, upgraded our tickets to DC to Sleeper, and checked in our bags with the Red Cap. It was 1515 by the time we hailed a taxi and headed out 7.3 miles across town to the Carl Sandburg House at 4646 Heritage Avenue.

Our driver was an engaging young black man, born and raised in The Windy City, who enthusiastically answered our questions. He told us that there are only two rivers in the world that flow backwards,

“One is the Chicago River. Can you name the other one?” We didn’t know.

“The Nile,” he said.

“Good thing we’re not on Cash Cab,” Mimi said.

“They die the river green on St. Patrick’s Day,” he said, and then went on (I missed the segue over the roar of the engine as he gunned it through a yellow light) went on to tell us about Moses touching the waters of the Nile with his staff and the river turning to blood, and of the magicians cheap-trick to duplicate what was clearly a God-thing. Then he came back around to say, that just as God had through Moses changed the water to blood, so it was a God-thing that the Nile runs backwards. But unlike the Nile, the Chicago River’s backward flow is a Manmade-thing for the purpose of sanitation.

When we finally found the house, it looked like any other on the street. I went up to the front double doors and tried the doorknob under the two Christmas wreaths still hanging. It was locked. I ran the bell. No one came. With the taxi idling, Mimi came and took a picture of me to memorialize the inauspicious end of my anticlimactic pilgrimage. I had to laugh as I trudged back to the taxi where the meter was coming up on $30.00. On the way back I asked our cab driver (let’s call him Moses) what his big dream was. “What do you mean?” he queried. “You know, like owning your fleet of taxi cabs…?” “Oh no, not me,” he said. “I’m just fine. I like what I do.” He went on to tell me how he was married and both his family and his wife’s family lived close, they took turns, one visiting the other. I was really impressed with his answer. I don’t think I’ve ever gotten such a contented answer to that question from anyone. Suddenly I was riding in a chariot full of milk and honey, on my way to the Promised Land.

We asked Moses, to take us over the river to Willis Tower. Thankfully it didn’t take as long to get back, and by the time we settled up, it was $45.00 including the tip. I suggested food, and Mimi heartily agreed, pointing to a place across the street. It was a below street level restaurant named Pret, which she told me means “Ready” in French. We had soup & sandwiches. The warm liquid soothed our frozen faces, just in from the minus 6 degree chill on the sidewalk, where everyone was bundled up to the nines. Satisfied and warm, we donned our polar gear and bravely struck out for long expedition across the street to Willis Tower. It used to be called the Sears Tower. As we walk in under the shiny silver letters through the revolving door, I can’t help but think of Bruce Willis in Die Hard. There was no line for the elevator, so we paid the fee, equivalent to a crosstown cab ride and hopped right on the elevator with two other couples. The pretty young elevator operator pressed 99, and up we went, doors opening onto the secondary lounge area. We were instructed to step around the corner and get on another elevator which would take us up four more floors to 103 for a most spectacular view of the city. We walked one slow circle around the Sky Deck snapping picture after picture. I’d never thought of Chicago as a huge metropolis. From up there it seemed to rival New York City for skyscrapers, and Los Angeles for sprawl. I could have spent a couple hours up there reading all the information boards about the history of Chicago and its native sons and daughters like Gwendolyn Brooks and Carl Sandburg, but our two and a half hour layover clock was ticking, and we had to get back.

New train: Capitol Limited. When we got in the car we discovered Justin in our old room No.12, and we assigned to his old room No. 11. Same two rooms different train, different car. Now we’re best friends. Justin works in Corporate and Government Telecommunications, as such, he’s always on his laptop and cell phone arranging this and that.

Brian, our new Car Attendant is a very cordial man who has been working only three months for Amtrak. He used to be a Bathroom & Kitchen Designer, but with the big sinkhole in the middle of the housing market, he’s taken to more reliable union employment. I like to see a man land on his feet when his career drops out from under him; see him pick himself up, dust himself off, and go find some work to do without simpering and whimpering for months on end about how sad his life is.

Our mobile hotspot has been working fairly well, except over the long stretches of gridless nothing. Down the Atlantic seaboard, I’m hoping, with all the high-density urban-opolises that four green bars will keep coming up strong.

We made reservations for the latest time slot and went up the dining car at 2030. The staff on the Capitol Limited are a bunch of tall white guys, and the service is excellent. Eric, the one short guy, waited on us for dinner. He’s hoping for a full time slot soon where he will get 3 days on and 3 days off and get paid for 180 hours a month whether he gets the hours or not.. During desert I started doodling on the paper tablecloth. He stopped to admire it saying that he liked to paint, but hadn’t done any in a long time. Mimi and I encouraged him to get back into it. He told us about an art idea that he had that was very unique. We promised not to tell. He doesn’t want anyone stealing his idea before he has a chance to get his place fixed up with some studio space. Mums the word.  I signed and dated my doodle and dedicated it Eric, as inspiration.

Mimi isn’t feeling well still; sore throat and sour stomach. Feeling a little blue. The boys in the table across the aisle at dinner made her think of her sons CJ and Jon when they were teenagers. I could see her watching them, reaching out to them with her eyes and her heart. I still can’t imagine what it must be like to have one your kids die. I don’t think the sorrow ever goes away. Yesterday she was thinking about Jon. “He’d have really enjoyed this trip.” I think of my Dad too, and how much he’d have loved to be along with us. He once told me, “If I win the sweepstakes, I’m going to pay you your salary for a year and we’re going to go traveling together.” “Well Dad, that generous offer has been made by other circumstances.” He goes with me in spirit.

~ The Daily Poet

IN CAFFINATED ANGSTROMS

A sip of cafe latte lets me go,

Untweaks the tiny spaces brain-fist first,

In caffinated angstroms nice and slow.

So caught-up in a turbulence of snow,

This glory melts me down to candid thirst;

A sip of cafe latte lets me go.

The Rolex movement of my hammer's throw

Engages levers of my limbic burst,

In caffinated angstroms nice and slow.

That Cessna feeling tunes my well-strung bow,

And trims the feathered edge on which I'm nursed;

A sip of cafe latte lets me go

This island on the Gulf receives a blow

Of wind much like annunities dispersed

In caffinated angstroms nice and slow

Because today I reap what others' sowed,

I bless the air that others' cursed;

A sip of cafe latte lets me go

In caffinated angstroms nice and slow.

D. Edgar Lamp

The Daily Poem - 266

Tampa, Florida

Farrell's On The Island at 221 East Davis Blvd. (Davis Islands)

Villanelle

Journal:  Wake up call from Mimi at 0800.  I cleaned up the front yard descimated yesterday by the "Everything Free" sign I put out.  As I was cleaning, a couple of yard guys drove by and asked for anything metal.  I opened the garage and let them pilfer, requesting first right of refusal.  They took a lot of rusted tools, and other odds & ends.  Best of all they took the washer, dryer and refrigerator.  They agreed to come by tomorrow and help me move the piano-etc to Pinetree.  Cali called from Scarlett's office: Letter Of Adminstration ready.  I drove the Letter to Tampa and dropped it off with Meg at Wells Fargo Advisors.  Things progressing.  Updated David, Mimi, and Mom again.  Nice having them to lean on.  Late lunch out on the Davis Islands, reminiscent of San Diego's Coronado Island.  Then drove out to Ybor City and walked along 7th Avenue between 15th and 22nd Streets talking to Mimi on my cell phone.  There should be a quicker way to say "talking to Mimi on my cell phone" like "celling".  So it would go: walking along 7th Avenue celling Mimi.  Being homonymous with "selling" makes it a bit ambiquous, I guess.  No pimping, just conversation.  Back to Orlando, and went to see Clint Eastwood's "Hereafter" starring Matt Damon and a very sexy Cecile de France.  Oh-la-la!  To bed at midnight with the cockroaches at Newcastle.

TICKER TAPE CHARADE

And so the grappling begins to grape

The scrimmaging of sudden change to scrimp 

On rulers piled high with ticker tape

The piano lessons finally taking shape

With notes that yield a swelling rise of blimp

And so the grappling begins to grape

From Broadway windows fly the fleecing crepe

The aftermath of calculated skimp

On rulers piled high with ticker tape

The algebraic cap and gown my cape

That billows out behind my numbered limp

And so the grappling begins to grape

The lusty measurement of sheerest drape

Conform to fits of stage as royals primp

On rulers piled high with ticker tape

I'm here it seems my jaw in dropping gape

A giant prawn just yesterday a shrimp

And so the grappling begins to grape

On rulers piled high with ticker tape

a Villanelle

written in Idyllwild, California

for The Daily Poem

on October 7, 2010

by D. Edgar Lamp

PURPLE CATERPILLAR

Who told you you were just a gone gone girl,

All twisted up and pierced to kingdom come?

Who made your spiny-legged wormlike world?

What happened to the single stately pearl

That once adorned your neck of blushing plum?

Who told you you were just a gone gone girl?

Did someone show your how to drink and hurl

Your cookies down the drain with cinnamon gum?

Who made your spiny-legged wormlike world?

And did you lose your daddy down some swirl

Of midnight screaming rush to where you're from?

Who told you you were just a gone gone girl?

What stiff rejection froze your french kiss curl?

What hammered violence left you bone white numb?

Who made your spiny-legged wormlike world?

And if cocooned, some Spring could twirl

You free, what butterfly would you become?

Who told you you were just a gone gone girl?

Who made your spiny-legged wormlike world?

~ D. Edgar Lamp (Villanelle)

MY LAST SWEET RITES

The world's been nicely diced in word-sized bites.

We ladle them with pen-like vocal spoons.

Each cube contains its image-ready sights.

This soup is just the swallowed ink that writes

Our minds in metaphoric cubed cocoons;

The world's been nicely diced in word-sized bites.

We dialogue in crooning moth-like flights

Above our heads in lyric thought balloons;

Each cube contains its image-ready sights.

Our hungry ear with tongue-like want invites

The spoken song's articulating runes;

The world's been nicely diced in word-sized bites.

Our repertoire of pure imagined heights

Brings earthward all the mist-fed visioning moons;

Each cube contains its image-ready sights.

Accept this wing-like food my heart recites,

To feed this love of ours my soul consumes.

   To you, my love, I serve my last sweet rites—

   My fractaled heart's recursive tuned perfumes.

My world's been nicely diced in word-sized bites,

Each cube contains my image-ready sights.

for my wife, Mimi

~ D. Edgar Lamp (Villanelle)

INSTRUMENT FLYING RULES

It's not too late to change your mind

(Unless, of course, you're just that good),

From line of sight to flying blind.

You're aeronautically refined

(Perhaps a bit misunderstood);

It's not too late to change your mind.

The reason's rather ill-defined,

To change your style (as if you should),

From line of sight to flying blind.

You've flown the crafts of rarest kind

(The ones they said nobody could);

It's not too late to change your mind.

The logic's weak to leave behind

Your skill, and turn (as if you would),

From line of sight to flying blind.

It'll be (if you remain resigned),

A burning hole where once you stood.

It's not too late to change your mind,

From line of sight to flying blind.

~ D. Edgar Lamp (Villanelle)

DON'T LET THE MONSTER

Don't let the monster pinch your face,

His ogre tech is so passe;

Just hit him with your knowledge base.

He stalks you from his scary place,

Imagining you're made of clay;

Don't let the monster pinch your face.

If creeping from his steeple chase,

He traps you with his dossier,

Just hit him with your knowledge base.

He licks his lips of ghostly lace,

Believing you're a puffed souffle;

Don't let the monster pinch your face.

He'll gobble up your kung-fu mace,

And snap your slinging shot crochet;

Just hit him with your knowledge base.

Remember when from outer space,

He presupposes you're his prey,

Don't let the monster pinch your face,

Just hit him with your knowledge base.

~ D. Edgar Lamp (Villanelle)

FAREWELL, SWEET DREAM

No matter what I tell myself to do,

With arguments fine-tuned to best persuade,

I still can’t seem to drop the other shoe.

I’m always premature or overdue;

The time is never right for a crusade,

No matter what I tell myself to do.

The stage is set but the actors are too few,

And though the lights go up and the band is played,

I still can’t seem to drop the other shoe.

My practiced speech is ready for debut,

And yet I wait immobile and afraid,

No matter what I tell myself to do.

Conceiving and believing? Yes I do!

And even when I trash the masquerade,

I still can’t seem to drop the other shoe.

And now, relieved, I bid my dream adieu.

The truth I’ve known, my heart’s at last conveyed:

No matter what I tell myself to do,

I still won't ever drop the other shoe.

~ D. Edgar Lamp (Villanelle)

THE METHOD

And so and so the method carries on,

The delicate Corvette of curving stride,

The pure naiveté to doff and don.

The factory of novel sprouting spawn

Conveyor belts the raw resilient hide,

And so and so the method carries on.

The gears of motion turn from dusk to dawn,

And nightly carry in the Jekyll side;

The pure naiveté to doff and don.

The bells and whistles cheer the day undrawn

To draft the still unwieldy Rolls of pride,

And so and so the method carries on.

The engine bolted down in roaring brawn

Disturbs and stirs in search of spins untried;

The pure naiveté to doff and don.

At last the giant doors exhausted yawn

Releasing one more swift vestigial ride,

And so and so the method carries on,

The pure naiveté to doff and don.

~ D. Edgar Lamp (Villanelle)

THE SWIMMER

The naked swimmer backstrokes up the bay,

At peace with all the sky and all the sea,

In deep repose upon the surface sway.

Discretely bundled on a rock the small cache

Of clothes implies a comeback guarantee,

As the naked swimmer backstrokes up the bay.

A figure on the cliff not far away

Commands a view of the swimmer pure and free,

In deep repose upon the surface sway.

The water’s arms still warm at end of day

Suggest delirious eternity,

As the naked swimmer backstrokes up the bay.

The figure climbing down evokes dismay,

And waving calls the swimmer, with a windswept plea,

In deep repose upon the surface sway.

Then dropping down as if to pray,

The figure falls in fierce calamity,

As the naked swimmer backstrokes up the bay

In deep repose upon the surface sway.

Posted to The Daily Poetry Club for topic: Wet

~ D. Edgar Lamp (Villanelle)

ALIAS FACE

I wonder if a man can change his name,

And if he changed it, what his face would do?

But I, not knowing how, have stayed the same.

To call a fire something not a flame,

Like looking through a different lens, may skew;

I wonder if a man can change his name?

The felon wanting to avoid his blame,

May banish who his prosecutors knew,

But I, not knowing how, have stayed the same.

Can twisting labels really turn the game,

Or is it what it is, both P and Q?

I wonder if a man can change his name?

The singularity of starring fame

May take an alias for its debut,

But I, not knowing how, have stayed the same.

I daily face my crimes and eat my shame,

With no one else but me to pin it to.

I wonder if a man can change his name;

But I, not knowing how, have stayed the same.

~ D. Edgar Lamp (Villanelle)

I SEE THE FUTURE

I see the future bathed in naked light,

Her burnished thighs a cure for all disease,

One center folding in from left and right

Reclining in her low slung hover-kite,

Just moments off the surface ocean breeze,

I see the future bathed in naked light.

All powered up and nano-engine tight,

Her gentle net ubiquitous to please,

One center folding in from left and right.

At last the vision made of quiet night,

Her gift of access nullifying keys,

I see the future bathed in naked light.

Her cool fruition framing height on height,

A succulence of exponential trees,

One center folding in from left and right.

Applaud with shouts her delegates of might

Who spiral love’s expandable decrees,

I see the future bathed in naked light,

One center folding in from left and right.

. 

~ D. Edgar Lamp (Villanelle)

THE MANSION ON THE MOONLIT HILL

The mansion on the moonlit hill is mine,

And though it’s laid with riches wall to wall,

Your simple love will dim its best design.

I dug the footings deep and plumbed the line,

Each skyward beam set arrow straight and tall.

The mansion on the moonlit hill is mine.

The spiral stairs and cornices combine

To give the house a splendor to enthrall,

And yet your love will dim its best design.

I laced the yards with blooming columbine,

Precisely placed each regal waterfall.

The mansion on the moonlit hill is mine.

The art of floor and ceiling is as fine

As any found within the Taj Mahal,

But still your love will dim its best design.

No place on earth but this would I enshrine,

No one but you could share this hallowed hall.

The mansion on the moonlit hill is mine.

But your sweet love will dim its best design.

For my wife, Mimi

~ D. Edgar Lamp (Villanelle)