I used to think,
in some indulgent piteous way,
that to die could be quite sweet,
a shuffling off of all things wrong,
an end of pain and transient joy,
but now I think I’d rather stay
to face the burden of the day.
Whatever comes is worth the price
of one more moment in this life
where heaven rests inside a flower.
Such things can fill the saddest hour
if we will only turn and look.
I now delay to close the book.
Hours pass by with dragging feet,
the time runs slow, the hour glass damp
and all because I just don’t know
how and where you are today
and did I say a word that hurt?
Unwitting, blind, and stupid,
a fool will always maim himself.
The snow outside seems less white
the moon by clouds is hidden.
I search for light and find none.
I build a fire, a beacon,
and hope that, whatever I did,
I may be forgiven.
A fool will always blame himself.
Asked to write a love poem and finally lost for words!
This love? that love? how many have there been?
and who of them was first? probably fair Psyche,
she who burned Eros’ wings, in the dark unseen
and put his feet to flight. There’s a lesson there.
It’s hardly likely, after that, I’d fall in love so quickly ,
but I did, with Guinevere, and she ran off with Lancelot!
ah how women do deceive! it made me feel quite sick!
After that I sat about and thought.
It all seemed like a shot in the dark.
Wendy was too soppy. Maid Marion seemed brave and kind
but she was always off with Robin shooting arrows in the wood.
I wanted one who was strong and good, the sort I couldn’t find,
one who liked what I did instead of what they thought I should.
Some one who understood! I was young and stupid.
So much for Cupid! Wild thoughts ran round my head.
A friend came by to see me, said “STOP READING BOOKS!”
”If you want to know what women are like drag one into bed”.
So I did. I chose one only for her looks. A big mistake.
It’s more than looks that make a girl. I soon found out.
I went back to the library and searched amongst the shelves.
I read history, not mythology. I was seeking hard, firm facts.
Not much mention of the woman I needed there.
Battling, defeated, Boudicca had some appeal,
Joan of Arc, a little mad, Cleopatra sounded bright.
All were doomed. Past age. All done and dusted, Dead.
And then I found the poets. Their voices burned the page.
Poems of love and loss and passion, sacrifice, desire
It set my heart afire. Visions of real love filled my throbbing head.
I saw that you must work at it, losing is better than never having.
Its torture, sad, tragic, maddening. It’s happiness, joy, and magic.
It’s worth fighting for and always trying. Real Love is never dead.
I sat in a noisy cafe, reading Shakespeare’s Sonnets,
glanced across the room. I saw her there composed.
She seemed complete.
She was reading Keats. I smiled.
“Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art…”
Good start. Our glances became frequent.
I took up courage, walked across. “You like T.S. Eliot?’
”Oh yes! I love him! Dylan Thomas?”
I smile again, nodding, offering her coffee.
We smiled and talked and talked. I walked her home.
Spent all night writing poems on her doorstep.
Fortunately it was summer. I didn’t freeze to death.
My poems only purpose was to make her love me.
I wanted her to love me more than all the poets.
She inspired me. She desired me. She was the first –
my sonnet.
The red brick walls
protective, high,
enclose, surround, embrace
sun warmed barrier
dressed with pear and plum trees
rose petals scent the lawn
syringa blossoms cloak the path
the girl beneath the apple tree
plays with a blade of grass
dreaming
dreaming
dreamng
there is a time
for slipping through
where two worlds meet
the fair folk have a name for it
a name i will not tell you
it must remain unspoken
there is a time
the wind keeps turning
here and there
all the cows are restless
dogs bay at the moon
owls hoot in chorus
moths tap at your window
the cats wont let you stroke them
the horse will kick at the stable door
the word means wonderful,
open, charming,
delicious, exciting,
delightful,disarming,
beautiful,
unhinged
on the edge
of the dark wood
i sit
holding my breath
the grass my father cut that day
was parched and scorched
by burning sun
his ashes rest
beneath the roses now
the rain pours down
and bounces on the lawn
bending down the peony heads
and flattening the fern
the grass has grown again
will he?
the day they met
the wind turned
in slow pirouette
the curtains at the window,
caught and pulled by the breeze,
flew away to the open sea
the southern sun hides from the winter
taking refuge in your eyes
from there it shines
and all the world is warm again
On this new page I will be posting, on a daily basic, writing prompts I have created or collected and used. If you use one on your own site please mention this page as the prompt source and leave a comment in the box on the Writing Prompts page so that people can find your writing.
The Dreaming Path 