Thursday, April 16, 2009

Waiting and Waiting

Counting and counting,
as if that will help the time pass.
The waiting and waiting
makes me just want to get up
walk away and not return -
But I have to stay and find out.

Pacing and pacing,
as if my walking will bring the answer.
Figiting and figiting
doesn't solve anything.
I'll just have to be patient.
This will all be a memory one day.

The Last Remaining Aster Flower

The Last Remaining Aster Flower

Posses me like the very last flower
For one gentle, fleeting hour.
When my beauty is vivid and clear,
Smell the fregrance while I'm near.

Then when time takes me away,
Let your tears fall on that day.
Steal away to mend and heal
Grieve the loss, the pain you feel.

When the clock has ticked once more
Let your feet then find the floor.
Walk one step, then two, and three.
Restore your heart, but remember me.

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

My Simplest Pleasures

My simplest pleasures

My simplest pleasures are
A friend who sends me a birthday card
The peace of the color green
Knowing my puppy only cuddles with me

The joy in an infant’s eye
The laugh of my lover & knowing why
Touching fabric and feeling the weave
Knowing God’s a friend that will never leave.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Unexplained, She's Just Gone

I lay in bed sleepless tonight
As I ache for my love lost.
A love that was my very world,
And now I can find her nowhere.

The air tonight is restless,
Upsetting leaves and small twigs,
Battering them against my window,
Making certain I don’t slumber.

Then I hear a kindred soul,
A coyote in the dark and distance;
A long, low, lonesome call
Searching for his lost love.

I can see it now; the rain last month
Caused a mudslide as she hunted.
Her last thoughts were of him,
Then the soil burried her - just gone.

Is that the same for me, I wonder.
Where is my woman, my lover?
Fear floods me. Is she hurt, is she dead?
Our last touch was tender and sweet.

For two weeks now we've searched
I don't recall the last time I ate.
I'd be out there now, but exhaustion
Melts the marrow from my bones

"Why can't we find her?" I ask my pillow.
I loved that woman from deep inside my soul.
Brother beyond, I wish I could join you
In that long, lonesome, grieving howl.

Monday, April 13, 2009

A Line-Storm Song

The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift.
The road is forlorn all day,
Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,
And the hoof-prints vanish away.
The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,
Expend their bloom in vain.
Come over the hills and far with me,
And be my love in the rain.

The birds have less to say for themselves
In the wood-world's torn despair
Than now these numberless years the elves,
Although they are no less there:
All song of the woods is crushed like some
Wild, earily shattered rose.
Come, be my love in the wet woods, come,
Where the boughs rain when it blows.

There is the gale to urge behind
And bruit our singing down,
And the shallow waters aflutter with wind
From which to gather your gown.
What matter if we go clear to the west,
And come not through dry-shod?
For wilding brooch shall wet your breast
The rain-fresh goldenrod.

Oh, never this whelming east wind swells
But it seems like the sea's return
To the ancient lands where it left the shells
Before the age of the fern;
And it seems like the time when after doubt
Our love came back amain.
Oh, come forth into the storm and rout
And be my love in the rain.

Robert Frost