And here’s another one from the same author that I stumbled upon. I am thinking that in not giving it a title he is trying to somehow add a sense of mystery and, paradoxically, attain some sort of credibility.
I added the picture – hoping it to be suitable.
This one seems to make a bit more sense to me but still comes across as a tad pretentious.
And that’s what worries me about poetry sometimes. I struggle to seperate the truly meaningful from the utterly inane.
Anyway, this is what it is, I suppose.
***
The sun on distant hills
Shadows like a curtain
Falling upon the stage
Upon this turning page
The light descends
This chapter ends
In sorrow
Let me steal or borrow
Memories
To take into the night
To wearily take flight
And yet
Forget
This day
That I may
Dare to dream
Until tomorrow
***
Richmond Road 
Oh my gosh! Are you a Bartholomew Mog fan? I LOVE his poetry! It’s stunning!! He’s pretty much a recluse. How’d you find his poetry?
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Entirely by accident. I’m not sure if old Bart is still kicking, but I didn’t notice him being awarded any Nobel prizes for his contributions to art.
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Yeah, if he’s still alive, he must be a hundred by now!! But hey, it’s never too late, so hopefully he’s still writing!
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I like this one better than the first one you posted. There is a continuing theme through it and the message seems pretty clear.
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I think you might be right
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I like this one better than the other. Whether it’s good “poetry” or not🤷🏼♀️ I don’t know.
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Nor do I, I suppose.
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