POETRY PAGE NINE
All Live In The City"
earth is fair and really quite pretty,
But like it or not, we live in the city
There are birds and flowers and sweet air to breathe
But the TV set wonít give us our leave
Vile things seem to be ruling our souls
The dark prince is watching as the dim bell tolls
I want to get out and gaze at the sky
But Iím inert in my chair and I donít know why
It seems as though I am held here in chains
Too much adversity smashing my brains
To get out and feel the rain on my face
A part of nature is where I want my place
To sit on the ground and behold a storm
Iím sure the lightening would cause me no harm
So many things have gone mad in the world
Humanity crazed and morality hurled
But there is beauty yet to be seen
But we cannot let ourselves wean
It is all there and isnít it a pity
We are trapped, we all live in the city.
I will not leave my dreams, though the times are weird,
All things that are passing are things I had feared;
To face the fear is most strenuous of all,
but this I must do, lest I end in a fall.
I will keep on going, Lord knows I try,
Iíll follow my fancy till the day that I die.
Mental images, and an incredible vapor
Are reality to me - they are written on paper.
My words seem useless, and they are in vain,
Best left unspoken for they cannot gain-
I gave of myself upon sterile ground,
Your ears were deafened, fixed and bound.
My metaphor is ancient, mellow and bold,
But in sticks and sand, it is sodden and cold.
Your scorning of this will eternally burn,
And you will WANT as you tumble and turn.
You will chase my voice, but hear it no more . . .
You had it completely-but locked was your door.
Now to your ignorance---my lips will close,
And in dark sweet silence, I shall compose.
Somewhere in the distance in your plague of gloom,
Traces of me will skillfully loom.
You will be trapped in your own place & mood,
And the voice of absence will surely intrude. . . .
Occasionally I envision extraordinary things
In the midst of my lengthy nighttime dreams
Once, I had a picnic with a mischievous Elf
His defiant behavior was as that of myself
With the Bohemian, I have rambled and rode
My body in the breeze, my cup overflowed
And I was intrigued when I met Prince Charming
His presence bewitched me; his allure was alarming
I have appointments with phantoms now and again
And we frolic and play in their quaint native dens
There is no fright, but good cheer and delight
My callers are curious in the repose of my night
And certainly, I have been beamed up to Mars
Where better to go than amongst the Stars?
I floated languidly in the middlemost space
It was mellow and pleasing; I enjoyed the sweet taste
Then Prophecy was given by Spiritual illusion
This knowledge absorbed like a blood transfusion
Why has the contact drawn nearer these days?
This slumber state is a tremendous maze
There are few directions that I havenít been
And more than likely, I have not seen the end
There is no boundary in the depth of my trance
Existence is ruled by Fate, not chance
These words I write are accurate and true
Or I wouldnít bother telling them to you
Inside my head, I hold regal rein
And awesome epilogues do fill my brain
Oh I could tell you the most powerful things
The rewards of knowing, and what the knowing brings
But I shall keep still about such as this
Sometimes ignorance surely is bliss
I could write for years but you could never know
Where I have been or the seeds that I sow
Though this is mysterious, peculiar, and odd
I believe my dreams are sent here from God
Ah, at times to me this is so unsettling
With my brain Someone is meddling
I must stop this dreaming, as I tumble and turn
I have reached the point of no return
Perhaps this is my fortune in life
Fall asleep with my pillow, awake with a knife
Iím sure this epistle is entirely opposing
But I have no control when I am reposing.
A LITTLE QUAINT LADY"
Iíll 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. . . .
© 2001 by
Cathlyn Cross- Leming (All rights reserved) All material written here is
my sole original work