POETRY PAGE THREE

"What?"

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

cold,

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?

"The Magnet"

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 . .

"Ethereal Whispers"

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)

All material written here is my sole original work.