JUST A LITTLE QUAINT LADY
I’ll be a little old lady, and live in a shoe;
But I don't want ill mannered brats running through.
Because I would be spanking a lot of behind...
Especially if the rotten children were mine.
I just want to breathe and live by myself,
And hang my stockings on my very own shelf.
I would have a garden with many flowers;
And sit in my swing and gaze for hours.
Nobody would endeavor to bother me there;
I will have already planted many a snare.
I wouldn't care if folks wondered of my quirks;
Frankly, I believe most people are jerks.
I'd have a nice dog, always wagging his tail;
He's happy he's mine; for him, I'll not fail.
I like animals more than I do most people;
And my back yard would be my steeple.
I would pray and worship in the wide open air,
Because the guardian angels are watching there.
I'd run through the woods, naked and free...
This I would do, because this is me.
All the dirty laundry would be mine alone;
No reason to gripe, no reason to moan,
For what I pick up; it is I who had strewn.
It is all mine, and mine alone!
I have friends; I can count on five fingers...
We cherish one another and the feeling lingers.
These people would be welcome any time at all;
When we need each other, we just give the call.
I don't really need a great lot of stuff,
And I don't care if you think I bluff.
I'm not pulling your leg, or being the least bit shady;
All I want to be...is just a little quaint lady.
Her apparel is that of years gone by,
Her wit is quick, yet hidden and dry.
This is surely not her place, it seems . . .
Something in her eye tells of lofty things.
She has immediate presence that radiates,
And her mind forever meditates . . .
(She's unable to choose from many fates).
Star dust glistens in her long silken hair,
A philosopher, a teacher: she disguises her care.
Her feet are bare, but they are quite clean. . .
Her face is bright, and her body is keen.
She seeks an answer for the one who will ask -
And with knowing, she completes the task.
As does a waif, now for survival she strives,
But had coachmen and servants in other lives . . .
An essence about her of rare perfume. . .
She has jewels and treasure in a private room.
She escapes away from well laid schemes
While she dwells upon her lofty dreams.
She runs with grace through the driving rain,
Wearing only a diamond on a gold neck chain.
So much mystery and a splash of charm. . .
Can such a creature's heart be warm?
If you chance see her, do beware . . .
She's a gypsy, a lady, and has Irish dare.
With an incantation cried out in the dark,
She lights the fire with only a spark. . .
Does she carry a weapon, or play a harp?
She draws and quarters the ace of spades,
And she is the master of mind charades.
Her longing is not for silver and gold . . .
For, her heart and mind are centuries old.
What she loves most is the moon as it beams;
Her desire is to dwell within lofty dreams. . . .
I Envy The Wind
The wind travels reckless across the terrain,
And carries with it the torrents of rain;
It sings a mournful song with ease,
As it dominates the grass and trees .
. . It has no obligation, and it never will -
No set destination, no promise to fulfill.
The wind is savage, it moves on it’s own;
I envy the wind . . . every place is it’s home.
Imagine . . .
A lightening flash from east to west
Beginning the great and final test
Furious winds and mangled trees
Chaotic thunder and severed seas
Falling stars in the twilight hour
Perplexity reigns, the condition dour
Freezing gusts with hailstones spinning
Off with the old to a new beginning
The earth is trembling beneath our feet
Completing man’s ironic mete
Sticks and stones from the deep dark well
Quandary sure as no tongue can tell
A shadow drifts o’re the clear blue lake
While souls are won by the wicked snake
Moon ushers the tide then veils her face
Epiphany whispers, “Seek eminent grace”
The elements plead with the lofty lords
Freedom will come with The King Of Swords
Imagine . . . .
I'm like a piece of driftwood
Shapened by the flow,
Carried by the current
Whether swift or slow.
The tide is shallow, the current's deep
A drifter has no time for sleep . . .
Until it reaches a distant shore
Where it will find an open door,
And unknown hands will draw it in,
So it shall never drift again . . .
Upon display for all to see,
I'm like a piece of driftwood,
But keep your hands off me . . . .
Frozen In Time
The first time I saw you, I felt the pain;
The next time I saw you was exactly the same.
A face without expression was what I beheld...
And an aura of death that I felt so well.
Your face was fixed ... it was frozen in time;
What happened to you beyond the enemy line?
By the tenth time I saw you, I knew what was plain;
Your mind was paralyzed by a serious war game.
Your once handsome body was ripped away
With chemical gas... killing you today.
You died two long decades ago;
You were dead and didn't know.
You were robbed of all that you once had,
Now left to wander in a world gone mad.
I’m sorry; I feel the pain should be mine---
But yours is the face frozen in time.
(for a Marine I met at the VA Hosp. 1994. I don't even know his name).
“Enough is enough” people always say,
How do we know what it is anyway?
When your mind and heart contend with themselves,
And there's too much conflict to store upon shelves:
You realize this, so get out of the smoke,
Enough is enough when you feel yourself choke. . . .
Thoughts of now and yesteryear
Have made things more than ever clear.
Even as I sit and write, I wonder what I seek tonight
Tho events occur to set our track
Ruins desire and holds us back . . .
Until we conjure within our minds
Truth or lies will make us blind---
Hastily we look but cannot find. . .
When will we ever understand
Infinity lies within our hand?
Love is lost and love is found, but
Lust still holds a heart not sound.
Seldom is a virtual state
Ever so swiftly,
The time is late.
Yesterday, you had a sweet dream
Or so it was at a moment's seam.
Undercurrents from the river brought
Frozen somewhere in a darkened thought, you
Ran from things that you not ought.
Everything has a purpose or reason, and
Everyone has committed treason . . . .
(The Truth Will Set You Free)
© 2001 by Cathlyn Cross- Leming (All rights reserved)
All material written here is my sole original work