A Heroic Stroke

This is a quest to bring back poetry.

To bring it back from dens of hoarding dragons−
Those dragons of forsaken memory−,
Remembering folk from the elixir flagons.
So what if I’m a poor excuse for hero?
Or poet? All the fun is in the journey.
Mayhap will be occasion makes the hero,
Or else opinion and the dragons burn me;
I see few others willing to adventure
And fewer still with sense of what’s been stolen−
The singing muses in dark dragons’ denture−,
So I will have to do. Here thumps my colon:
   The throbbing ictus surges with a buzz.
   A hero is as deeds of hero does.

Curtains

My boat has four beige sails; the sun they block
From bursting in and feeling much at home.
They won’t invite even the sharp-eyed hawk
To look in, less yet men whose feet do roam.
My boat has four beige sails, and on a sea
Of battered concrete it will freely soar,
Though standing still it is and shall still be
Until that blazes rain or men do war.
My boat has four beige sails, and when unfurled
They blow inwardly, warbling songs so subtle
That set my mind to sailing all the world,
Unminding busy men that outside scuttle.
   My boat has four beige sails, but me for crew,
   And rooted so, it sails just when I do.