chaucer, garden of saint mary, king henry the vii, london, lutheran, parliament, poem, poetry, scotch, westminster, Whiskey, whisky, white rose tavern
For some reason, this particular post fell off of my blog. As you can see, it was the first poem offered in the Poetry section. Hmmm…
To initiate the poetry section, and because my love of Scotch whisky began in London, consider this offering given in love of my wife…who is actually the muse for most, if not all of my attempts at poetic expression.
In the Garden of Saint Mary,
The flora, though opened, and reaching for the gifts God pours
From His expansive sea of beauty,
They are lessened when Jennifer has vanished.
The inner alleys of Westminster,
This Abbey of the Divine, the resonance of ancient, quite deafening
As it curls through the stone and irons of age,
And yet silent without hymnic chime of Jennifer’s tone.
King Henry of Seven, his chapel
Well sheltered near so-eastern walls of the Abbey, so romantic, celestial
With corners thus nigh to the White Rose Tavern,
Are hindered without Jennifer’s adorning regalia.
And the beds of the greats,
Whether Chaucer or Somere or Elizabethan lectors who lay resting
Within chains of dust in the Austin Canons of Southwark,
Still there is more life without Jennifer’s breath.
Parliament and towers and bridges and clocks,
Black dragons and monarchy emblems of stature, arise with pale faces
Though their heartbeats are crisp through ages and ages,
The city’s an infant when Jennifer is near.
‘Midst white cliffs and isles and springs of rain,
I long to be with you and explore the grand nature of that which serves seed
To my very own nation and idiom and restless endeavors.
Come with me, dear Jennifer, so that the city may live.
For Jennifer on Christmas Eve, 2010
From Chris, who longs to go to London with her again.