Three Thirty-Seven Ante Meridian

Three Thirty-Seven Ante Meridian

Written by Jonathan Henderson

Friday February 14, 2014 @ 3:37 AM

I. Ode to the Muse Thither a Poet Loves

While my muse sleeps thither me,

I awaken a-sorrowed, my soul sees

How my heart bleeds cold water as

If my fair Appalachia winter seethes.

Tis the present for which I'll weep

When my muse is thither way, and

I, ensconced, bereft of sleep, attest

That I, the poet, be a-vigil at twilight

While I dream of my muse at five.

II. A Commiseration Upon the Bewitching Hour

Tis the witching hour, and I? Well,

I state to thee upon my 3:37 morn

The spectre of her haunting ghost

Summoning me to combine hands.

She glows, but I see warmth within

Recalling our sinning oft and again

When last we tangoed at a banjo's

Pick, as we dueled as they, yet lived.

Are we pioneers? Are we fantasies?

Our reality shall remain our epoch

In time, only for our diaries to state

When I sang to my Leigh, and now?

Now she's thither, gone night by day.

The vultures encircle my plight as

I prepare forever my darkest lights.

III. Elegy of Haunting Recollections

I might be dead at a present, but I

Said, "Fair Maiden, let us begin our

Tryst between our spectre of colors

As radiant as Venetian skies, but I'll

Save the best for our gondola's ride

As the watery canals shall float us

So far as we may lay upon our fasts.

Lay, Lady, lay! As I will tempt thee

A ride by my equine across ol' Paris.

The images never dry like an oasis

Nor the creeks at rise and we'll flee

Upon our ark with two animals so

They, being us, devour fresh meat.

Gnash our teeth, and we? Our prey,

And though the blood subsides, how

There'll be a next time, and when a

Blue bell blooms among spring irises

Still our love'll spread hither till our:

Our mountains shall bury our souls.