POETRY PAGE THREE
What shall I write as I sit here tonight?
A sonnet is much too sunny and bright.
The story is so long and is rough,
And Iím not feeling especially tough.
Lyrics died at the flickering moon,
And jest doesnít fit with the murky doom.
Platitude is most redundant to scrawl---
But a soliloquy is beneath me to drawl.
The script wonít reveal and is weak;
The Poet is poor & weary & meek . . .
What then shall I hasten to inscribe
To a broken world that has already died?
"Wild Dark Eyes"
For three long years you were away
Three very long years ago, today
I stored all my love within a shelf
And kept my pain unto myself
You phoned and said, 'See you soon my love,
You are my hand and I am your glove.'
Each night I waited for you to appear,
But my eyes saw nothing but tear after tear.
I often got lost in your wild dark eyes,
And to this day, my memory flies.
To behold the moon on your long raven hair;
No other place would I have been than there.
With your special way, and a certain mood,
I was your dish, and you were my food.
I couldn't believe you had led me astray
And by accident, I found out one day . . .
While on your way to collect your love,
Your number was pulled, but not from above!
Who was the bastard that shot you dead,
While I was going out of my head?
. . . And I gave myself to another instead?
Just an innocent guy who needed a drink---
Not for a moment did you stop to think
A misguided bullet would break our link,
And cause our world to utterly sink . . .
I'm so terribly sorry, I hated you strong,
But I thought that you had done me wrong.
I never meant to lose faith in you,
I was so mixed up, didn't know what to do.
I've suffered so long, didn't know you were
Yet my loving memories will never grow old.
And as I gaze up into the star filled skies,
I'll forever remember your wild dark eyes.
* for Bob Finley, The Glove*
"The Fickle Rain"
Ah, here comes the Rain, and itís right on time
I need that sound, that melody, to make for us a rhyme
I will tell of the rain itself - The Rain---it is a song
An element of nature that is dominant and so strong
The falling Rain is changeable --- no, a better word is fickle
It can ease a weary soul when one hears a drop or trickle
It can cause destruction, and it can cause much death
Can rip away an Oak tree, and take away the breath
Myself, I love the water as it rushes, sighs and sings
This great force of nature must have golden wings
I have contemplated keenly under the Rainís sweet spell
Some of itís revelations, I can never tell
What I have said, Iíll say once more --- The Rain, it is a song
This special soothing creation has never steered me wrong
Oh, but it has ceased now --- and I wonder where it went
Where has my companion gone, the marvelous element?
You drew the old as well as the young,
Foresight & wisdom from your mouth sprung.
Various souls tarried around
To learn, love & share what they found.
But on the day that your spirit was fled -
The fragments all fell, the Magnet is dead.
Daddy, I ask you, "Why did you leave?"
My aching heart does little but grieve . . . .
"The Dawning Of My Dreams"
How can love be gossamer, yet so strong,
. . . is this contradiction?
I say, "No, real love is both, true love knows no fiction . . ."
It takes me to a Space Sublime
and makes this heart to swell and shine. . .
How could I know it would be so fine -
Where were you hidden, Oh Love of mine?
I have walked the razorís edge, did not expect to see
This reality of you, and how you set me free. . .
These words tell but my feelings, and poorly to me it seems
But, you are the end of my Rainbow, and the Dawning of my Dreams . .
Beautiful to think . . .
Now and then I hear a sound, ever so sweet and mild
It rocks me gently to and fro, as one does an infant child
An elegant murmur lingers around my open ear
A hint of The Everlasting is what I think I hear
Common logic tells me that I must remain adept
At being pacific in my ways, and this I must accept
Eternity must be exquisite Iíve pondered true and long
Iím certain itís most splendid, if Iíve done right not wrong
Such a delicate shimmer, within my darkened mind
A whisper of Eternity is what I hope to find
While in my ways I stumble, and peace is rarely found
I must seek Infinity, ere I reach my burial mound
Yes I am blind, deaf, and dumb, but there lies a place within
Where I know Ethereal Whispers are wearied to get in
While I lay upon my pillow, so silent still, and deep
The promise of Eternity will penetrate my sleep
Wonderful to know . . . .
© 2001 by Cathlyn Cross- Leming (All rights reserved)