Ice Pond



Man near the Ice Pond

Where do you belong?

In the depths of heart

Do you really have art?



You see so many images

Which you turn in stages

Of delight to your mind

But are they really kind?



Do your words flow so easily

Or do you force them breezily?

What does it take to make art?

Why do others see it as a lark?



Insistence there is not soul

Is a line becoming so old 

One writes as one feels

Doing so, tends to peel



Off the layers of dusty haze

Which clouds over with glaze

Eyes which've seen it all

Some sweet, some cruel



Images of brightened times

Some of which, were sublime 

Others, perhaps, depicted sad

Events which did not make glad



And writing them was a task

Which, if some were to ask

The answer would be this -

Life is not always bliss ....



Christopher W. Thomas

8:55am Sun 12/28/97