Poems VII

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HALF-LIGHT

Author: Laurie ( lck_tweek@hotmail.com )

There is a place between eve and dawn
Where the most fragile dreams dare live on,
Where prayers are whispered; faith held fast,
Where shadows linger beneath moon's caste
this is where I love you.
There is a time when the season's change,
Within our grasp yet beyond our range
A time of rebirth where hope is born
When stars shed tears before the morn
this is where I love you.
A twilight existence; fleeting dawn,
Reality's half-light, too soon gone,
In sunlight's glare, illusion crumbles,
A soul laid bare, it bleeds and stumbles,
this is where I love you.
Prayers falter, and yet no-one heeds,
The soul is broken, shattered, it bleeds,
A humble hope waits in vain, then sighs,
Love unrequited, hope too soon dies,
this is where I love you.
In the half-light between eve and dawn,
Still I love you eternally on,
And when my heart shall cease to beat,
My dreams and prayers I'll fly to meet.

GREY DAY

Author: Laurie ( lck_tweek@hotmail.com )

Do not despair, grey day, for I rejoice in you,
Do not wish upon yourself the sun's hot glare,
Nor the winter's cold glint,
For you alone are soft, muted,
Your very bleakness inspires
The melancholia of poets and lyricists,
Your forlorn sky the perfect backdrop
For autumnal branches stark and bare.
There is a nostalgia in your air,
Bespeaking times of seasons gone before,
And in this melancholia, this mist laden nostalgia,
We turn to the quiet comforts of hearth and home,
To lazy dogs, sleeping sentinels,
Heavy lidded cats settling onto armchairs,
The warm crackle of a fireplace,
Air pungeant with baking apples, a hearty soup,
Children dressed in woollens setting
Studiously about their schoolwork,
Fragrant tea, steaming cocoa, warm embraces,
The gentle patter of rain as twilight falls,
Parlour games brought out, more fragrant tea,
And laps are a cuddly place where stories come alive.
As the softly muted grey day draws to a close,
Prayers are heard, children tucked snug and kissed,
I turn to catch the days final moments,
Alone now, staring quietly beyond the window panes,
Strangely caught between the warm comforts
Of this soft, soft day
And the melancholia, the bleakness,
That permeates my heart.
I sigh and rest my cheek against the window's cool panes,
A lone tear falls, I do not brush it away.
This is where I remember you,
My one true romantic love, my soulmate,
All that we could have shared, all that we could have been,
Had we not made foolish, human decisions
And fallen off to pride and circumstance.
I cannot risk more than a single tear,
A moment's fleeting sorrow,
For if I dwell on bittersweet memories, my heart will shatter.
Yet I treasure you in my heart, always will,
Wistfully locked away, except for the grey soft days
When my heart can no longer contain you.

CRAVE

Author: Laurie ( lck_tweek@hotmail.com )

I am afraid of you.
I barely know you but I think I could love you.
Already my thoughts of you
Come intrusive and unbidden,
The curve of your lips,
The outline of your physique,
The unexpectedly dulcet voice.
My mind shudders and rebels,
Determined to protect a weary heart,
We are NOT doing this again!
I seek a steady foothold
As the tides of emotion
Ebb and flow within me,
Steady resolve, vulnerable frailty,
Locked in mortal combat.
And then I catch,
Unexpectedly in your eyes,
In a fragile unguarded moment,
A look I never wanted to see,
A look I understand only too well.
It is the craving, the hunger,
The almost unbearable longing,
The prideless needing that
Blisters and bleeds your soul.
It is the look of a wounded fawn,
An unwanted child, an unloved puppy,
It is the look of a desolate lover
Afraid to fall in love again,
Afraid to crack the fragile shell
That is slowly built
Around an aching heart,
A heart that has been hurt
So deeply that the scars
Are patterned indelibly on its soul,
And yet it craves even as it fears,
Craves with an intensity
Matched only by its pain,
A craving beyond all reason,
An open vein needing to feed
On the heady drug of love,
And yet it trembles,
Knowing the demons of its addiction.
It shudders, falters,
Remembering the knife-slashed demons,
The tormented days, the anguished nights.
And yet it craves,
A deep insatiable hunger
That yearns, almost unbearably,
For what it is afraid to have.
All too human is the heart,
Its measures of joy and sorrow
Molding it into what it is,
It could not be human otherwise.
It craves yet it determines
To never love again,
But a glass heart will simply
Crack under a different strain
For it cannot deny itself its
Craving and remain whole,
It cannot risk itself
Without risking all,
And so it exists in anguished limbo,
Forever undecided, torn between two terrors,
Beating eternally in vain.

MY EYES

Author: Gordon Clarkson ( gclarkson@onwentsiaclub.org )

My eyes flash before my life.
the flash lives before my eyes
slowly
unfolding evolving
If I could've seen this from there
then then
maybe I would've done things differently
It's so hard to say
It's so hard to stay
focused
on who you think you may be
are were
or might have been
the things we've seen
real imagined
and every every in between
finally crystallising
assuming coherent meaning
right at the moment of impact.

THE SHOVEL AND THE SHOTGUN

Author: Gordon Clarkson ( gclarkson@onwentsiaclub.org )

Where are you
Where will you be
When the sky comes calling
Crashing at your door
When the Angels
Spinning out of control
Come complaining
Screaming for more
But not really getting it at all
Missing the essential element
Where will you be
When apologetic clouds
Crowd your front porch
Demanding
Iced tea and attention
Letting slip such welcome
Yet self conscious drops
And sunshine,
Shyly sitting in the shadow
Back where you keep
The shovel and the shotgun
Trying not to shine
Where will you be
Where will you be
What if the wind arriving
Like a jet liner overshooting a runway
Like an idea spoken before
Being thought
Should disturb the dust of you contentment
Interrupting the rythym of the
Rusting rocking chair
On the front stoop of your life's work
what have you weathered
to merit this peace
to inherit this place
what scraps of leaves have curled and swirled
like pets around your feet
what enduring vistas has nature left as conversation
inalterable and inspirational
there will be time for both
the shovel and
the shotgun
invasions of visitors
terrestrial and otherwise
searching for sunrises
seeking solace and shelter
for and from the wind and rain
but in this place
is peace and the steady
rocking of a
brown shoed
tattered denim, dungaree clad
god

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