PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I met Keats again last night,



Was with him in the deep woods,



Where the young man in yellow light,



Was watching squirrels seeking food.



He shook hands as we met,



Remembered me, his 'beyond time' friend,



We exchanged greetings, words of warmth,



And slowly a silence crept:



Lost in his thoughts the poet was,



His gaze focused on the yellow grass,



He knew,  I felt, I could not be,



Ever, a part of the world to be.



My poet friend bade me sit on the ground,



Then he too sat, without a sound,



'You know why Muhammad, my friend," he said,



'Shelley and I  and you are always unbound?'



'Because we conform not to pretensions,



And adapt not to societal norms,



Because we shun customs, some traditions,



In our own time we are unwelcome.'



The meaning of his measured and gentle speech,



Struck a rhythmic chord in my being, quite deep,



He looked at me and took a dry twig,



Saying: 'The world thinks we are only this big.'



'Muhammad, my friend from beyond time,



I spent my short life like my odes and rhyme,



I loved those I thought would also love me,



The truth I found out when my soul was free.'



'I can see in your eyes O my friend, O poet,



The same deep pain that my eyes once hid,



No use Muhammad, you will face regret,



Perhaps that's why you travel back in time.'



'Maybe that's why you travel at night,



And meet me and Emily and share your rhyme,



For we see your heart's innermost plight.'



'But Keats, O great poet and dear old friend,



How do you think this world will mend,



Its pretentious and capricious ways,



How, tell me how, will my sojourn end?'



Hearing this, he was quiet, then sighed,



'No Muhammad, it is a great big tide,



You will break raft and sails then rather bend.'



'Come, poet of the twenty first century,



Let us go to the Yorkshire haunts of Emily,



Perhaps she will instill some hope in you,



To your restlessness might offer some clue.'



So we were there where Emily was,



Devoid of earthly pain, her soul like glass,



Crystal clear and reflecting inner peace,



She greeted us like a doleful lass.



'No use, Muhammad, Keats said and I too,



Your time will have little to care about you,



To be loved, dear friends, is a precious joy,



But, as with me and Keats, it's not there for you.'



'However, our friend, they both consoled,



Be not like us, a victim for consumption - for you,



Can see that true love for you and us is here,



In this realm you see there's love, sincere.'



'So our poet friend coming from future time,



Live your days and remember that you too,



Will be loved - after writing your last best line.'



That nightly meeting was shortlived as I was caught,



And shaken by a small, loving hand,



My daughter was there, smiling at me,



Asking me to help her to rise and stand.



My nightly journey and meetings with Keats,



And Emily and other poets help me on,



In living on a life where I love my loved ones,



Waiting to be loved in the time to come...