Poet’s Corner

The people of the North have said,

“What be these Northern Lights

that seem to chase it’s playful tail

across the midnight sky?”

It holds the rainbows spectrum

steadfast in icy cones

that burns with Heaven’s fire

and dwindles at the dawn.

It crackles with a static noise

as colors writhe across the void

and parts the certainty of night,

then folds it back once more.

“And do not whistle at these lights,”

the elders often say,

“Because they’re the souls of children

who, in their special way,

entertain this mortal realm in a game

that only they can play.”

Or let us ask the poets,

the teachers of the hearts,

who labor in intangibles

and describe their many parts.

For ideas ache to come alive

beneath the poet’s pen. And dreams,

those visions of sweet desires, seem

closer than before through them.

And they might call them music,

encryptedly in disguise,

a symphony of colored chords,

a concert for the eyes.

But as I watch with wonder,

my heart it brims with glee,

and it reminds me of a Father’s pledge; of life eternal

at the last, and at last, His company.

For He fills the sky with laughter,

and in His tendered mirth

these lights of mystery burst out like fire,

for He likes to hug the Earth with love and man is His desire.