The seas have calmed
Although not less untroubled.
The storms have quieted
Yet not less fearsome.
The clock’s face has staid
However, her time urges
Plots and plans and ploys
While the play enters a stage
Into the third and final act.
Where the seas rage
Although more calm.
Paradise is ravished
Yet remains more loved.
The ships ribs bend and groan
While the sails rap soothingly.
The job – the joy – the journey
Assures that there is no end –
No one is to be found.
That he could exist; a lover and a friend;
The poet sat quietly weighing the long wait
Across the lands of love and beyond dark sea’s portend
For all certainty is lost - when cruel silence holds fate.
A poem of the lovely Virginia who loved her poetry man;
Her knight and companion through to the very end.
The poet keeps flowers in mind - along with his feathered friends
At the Sparrow Café – it is his redemption and his great joy.
Fantasies of what might have been.
Regrets for all that was unseen.
Waiting – morning’s light
The extended nights are their own fright:
Watching; waiting; wondering if breath seeks life,
“Is she lost in there; alone; afraid of her strife?”
Preoccupied by the napkins she forms
Into patterns that still mean something; something of bliss.
“Oh, my holy god! Can you not see this amiss?
She is lost in her own world darkened by storms!”
The poet tends his garden of flowers - florets of phlox;
Budding mulberries leaving their purple stains upon an old wooden box;
Tips of day lilies and daffodils pushing forth the sleeping soil;
Hues of violets amidst a realm of Indian Strawberries blooming in yellow roil;
Clover abounds all around and tiny blue florets hint their presence – too;
Time for the Magnolia’s to dominate the foreground as the Peonies crew
A border ‘round the garden as Tulips praise the sol!
For survival is a reprieve of winter’s cold hand on newborn and old.
The great Junipers stand tall to bring forth fine memories set
Forth to flood the shores of the heart with sorrow of loss and regret
Leaving a vast void – where violet and vines stand with the cold sadness.
It is eleven-eleven twice a day
And yet, each moment is frozen to a time long ago;
To a memory; a friend with precious gifts. What say
Poet? Give and forgive what time has left behind to know.
In a room full of things that help but do not matter – much
She sits alone with her mind closed as such
To most of what life has left aside;
To hold and love a keepsake set to hold beside.
Knowing time is failing and slipping away.
“I fear the very thought of one less minute every day
Sleep my princess – I am here; I will be here
And you will always remain very near.
Shall I sing your songs once more my dear?”
The chaos of life struggling to survive
There is no time for chores; nor routines of ordinary thrive.
The drum beats ever so slowly as my heart bleats one more cry
Leaving me exhausted to continue the wait and my soul sighs.
When keys no longer open nor lock;
When songs have no key to hold on to;
Senseless hands no longer key time upon the faceless clock;
Even the open broken door begs for a knock!
The maps are all wrong - they cannot find you
Because there is no such place left;
The chimes sit eerily still while waiting a breeze to cue
And I am inside of the outside with no way in; bereft
Sewing together what is left of my shattered heart
And for the moment – the expiring of my soul
That waits to know how near is - the eternal cold.
Forgetting can be a casual lapse; taken by distraction
Or forgetting can be trauma; endured by a mind’s attenuation
Forgetting can be a gentle swim into eternity’s waters
Or a harrow in the narrow where Scylla and Charybdis wait in quarters.
The vicissitudes of change ask not for better nor worse
They simply come to be like the season’s lore
Bringing foster to regret and to remorse
Or a vase of fresh cut flowers to adore.
In midst of winter rang the dolorous bells;
Ponderous and barren of melody telling of toll
Of wives, friends and lovers sailing away in fold.
A beautiful sylph who dared the darkness.
A poet and painter who dared the darkness.
A friend stricken in silence dared the darkness.
And so, walk alone amongst the sea shells
Find light in the darkness; always the darkness.
That one may forget
And remembering is now a bridge too far set
From the shores of love and joy in all things done.
I promise it will never be too far away to abandon
Lest we all go blind and forget.
That life is a looking glass – it sees close
And it still views her classic pose.
But it is not a portal to return through or oppose
Nor own, refuse or reject – there is only one.
This looking glass can not be given nor won.
What a good cup of coffee proves;
all needed is fresh, black and hot!
That is enough – I ask, why not?
Life is a path of bumps, cracks, with many deep grooves-
No sweetener; no creamer – no fluff no stuff.
Just hot black and my familiar old cup- I am up!
Spilling sentences, thoughts, views, desires
Across a page that stands blank yet, fires
Kindled with cured dry words, rising smoke as a lovely rose
And painted with words of poetry and prose.
What words do you hold
That explain - what has happened?
Do your powers of prose rise to the moment?
Can a poet’s mastery of words satisfy
The plaintiff cries; the tears; the messenger’s dour?
Do your PoeTrees say enough
About her loveliness that led you away
From the woods - away from darkness
And into the clearing of joy.
Until one day the darkness kept her hand
And left you to walk alone with a book of words.
Alone at that table with the coffee stains
Distilled by the many tears fallen
For her music - stopped playing.
That he could exist; a lover and a friend
The poet sat quietly weighing the long wait
Across the lands of love and beyond dark sea’s portend
For all certainty is lost - when cruel silence holds fate.
A poem of the lovely Virginia who loved her poetry man;
Her knight and companion through to the very end.
Dedicated to: Virginia, Phil and Bill
Written for: Ken
