Tag Archives: heart desire

All I Want

Steel my aching love of thee,
rent your fabric from my dreams,
quell the sudden upstarts’ shift
that pulls the threads from hidden seams.

Cast a cold and pallor stare
befitting of a graveside rain,
shred the memories of my soul
that I may come to love again.

Deny your silken beauty
to fabric of an eon’s dust,
count your blushing smile within
the dog eared pages histories trust.

Bathe my memory empty,
white washed before the bleaching sun,
that ere I come to see you
will fade before my heart can run.

Twist the ink by such a spell
to ne’er reflect the prose I’ve stayed,
dump the feathered drunkard well
till pools of black are left and played.

For thee I count among the dead,
tho’ ghostly still, by living haunt,
‘til in my fear, to see you,
is truly all I really want.

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Filed under Memory, Perspective, Poetry, True Love

Eternal Rider

Towards setting sun I strike a pose
in chase of dusk’s last errant kiss,
clinging tight to hope, disposed,
dreaming in the sweetest bliss
of light remembered,
touch recalled,
duty bound while love enthralled
across an ochre meadow, this.

Barley wisps ignite the lea
crowned in long ray’s amber fire,
blinding what I strive to see,
as stirrups stretch in raising higher
to glimpse the spark,
lift the veil,
find my love across this dell,
there chance to win her arms, retire.

Eternity my shortest day
hath called me from the tomb and grave
to burden deep my soul to stay,
to ride upon eternal wave
of amber field,
of setting sun,
to nearly see the face, the one
who’s love I couldn’t save.

Toward dusk I strike a hopeful pose,
dreaming of her one last kiss,
belay a sudden scent of rose
to carry home my heart, remiss
of pain endured,
beyond the tide,
at dream within this errant ride,
across this golden meadow’s bliss…

Eternally I ride…

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Filed under Dreams, Poetry, True Love, Universal Soul

The Gypsy Rover

Her silken touch in dance across the twill’s uneven strand,
graces so her slender wrist as beauty’s stem and giving’s hand.
Poised in quiet pleasure, she works the loom in quickened throws
of shuttle passing twixt the threads which capture kind the weft in rows.

Her mind and heart deny the task that binds this simple weave,
permits her drift on whispered tones of gypsy songs that pitch and heave
through stories of the rover, of hearts won true seduced by song,
of verdant green and rolling rills that tempt a maiden’s heart strings long.

Between the woven threads of twill she hears a whistling soft and sweet
that slowly grows above the hill, its timber and its tone complete.
She feels the green wood gently ring in echo ‘cross the valley’s rill,
till nearer from the shady lane she feels her heart give rise, then still…

“But for gypsy rover!” she laughs and pulls the warp lines tight,
“One day he’ll yet come for me!” smiles and casts the shuttle’s flight
between the warp suspended threads, sweetly bound by loving hand,
blended with the rover’s song still tempting maidens through the land.

In honor of and inspired by the song “The Whistling Gypsy” also known as “The Gypsy Rover”

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Filed under Memory, Mountains, Nature, Poetry, True Love

The Rose, The Table, The Love, The Time

In ageless hesitation,
the pedals of the rose caress
the lines of time held sweet to rhyme
there poised across the oak’s duress,
that hold this ancient table
as art above its form
and echoes sweet the whispered times
when love engaged it, warm.

Now ‘tween the grains are softened waves
whose crests form black and knurled,
midst stains of life and living spilt
across an age unfurled.

Sweet the musky rose entreats
the golden oak with peace,
dripped from fallen “love me nots”
and broken heart’s release.

Silent stands the aged stem
whose vase has dried and browned
to contrast kind the porcelain
in fissures where life’s time has drowned,
and left the finest web enwrapped
about the fading glaze once white,
now aged and thin as are the hands
that nearby hold one pedal tight.

Held quiet in reflection,
dreams of love entwine her thoughts
as lines of time held sweet to rhyme
drape long across this moment sought,
as oak and rose sustain her
and hold her saddened form,
while echoes sweet in whispered words
enrobe and keep her warm.

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Filed under Perspective, Poetry, True Love

Daffodils

Where daffodils
once graced the hill
and held the silver rill
compliant,
now rests defined,
through waning time
and starves the course’s rhyme
to silent.

When once across
the lea she tossed
a heartfelt kiss embossed
in love,
now blows a wind
whose stark hands rend
what memory mends
beneath the glove.

Nearby stood
a quiet wood
whose home was good
and honest,
now fills with ghosts
and empty hosts
who echo whisper’s loving toasts
yet fearfully immodest.

Tho’ no truth rolls
across the folds
of meadows in the tolls
of time,
‘tis still these lays
of poetry stay
the lifelong play
of love in rhyme…

For even as the eons blend
a passing state of heart,
heaped upon this histories’ pyre
are hope and dreams, and true love’s start
that held the pausing when he claimed,
“you are mine, eternal”,
and bent the ether’s honest waves
when sure her heart felt love still vernal…

Today is just soliloquy…
today an echo of regret…
today an ancient memory,
passed closed doors that ne’er forget
the daffodils,
the singing rill,
the kiss cross meadow’s lea,
the forest sweet
with cot complete
and every verse of poetry…

It holds the ether’s silence calm
to those who pause to feel…
It offers what is true in love,
for those who need to heal.

In honor of Robert Burns and his “sweet Mary”

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Filed under History, Perspective, Poetry, True Love

Georgia Station 1943

This summer night so softly calls, beckoning hearts to stay one more, as coyly baited anticipation pulls her past the station’s doors. Upon the platform, stalled in silence, the blue rails disappear through trees that hold this summer’s boundary, that hold this town where loved was pleased. For here life slowed its errant rush and dreams suspended moment’s splendor within the kiss of true love’s blush and all that truest arms can render. Slow and pointed, every kiss, so softly laid in Georgia’s moon, eternal, every moment’s claim, yet still this summer passed too soon, when through the southern pine the call, the orders came and he was gone. Stemmed along these rails of chance, their lives, their hopes, in whispers long.

In full moon’s fire the clouds broke bright in iron blue and angel white. The scent of pine and clay’s red rust held her captive as it must. A long low calling whistle echoes o’er some distant hill, shuddering her stoic courage, flirting with her iron will.

The platform mostly empty now, her one lone bag next to her side. Gabardine in blue and pressed, the rose he gave her tucked inside the fold at hat’s fine piping, that as she stood there still, its fragrance mixed in Georgia pine, stirred by full moon’s hope and will.

And so with time, as time does bend, her fleeting moment’s grasp did rend an echo along the steel railed tracks, that in each passing second stacked each moment spent, each sleepy kiss, each spark from every ember’s bliss, to well a tear divine.

The steam in angry spurts and spouts softened hard the whistle’s scream, as pounding out eternal hopes and stretching long arrival’s dream. The quiet night escaped the scene in unfamiliar porter’s rush, yet… from steeping recollection’s blur, one steam bound sigh reduced to, “hush!… feel the Georgia moon pull strong upon this liquid steel and night, blue in hopes and promise, red in love and blessed in white… hush!”

As she stepped aboard the sighing angel’s bluing heat, she heard her true love’s whisper, faint, “hold my kiss upon your lips until again we meet”…

Slowly left in silence, the platform stark in summer’s moon, as distance dims the pullman’s lantern, this summer’s bliss returns to June.

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Filed under History, Poetry, True Love, Universal Soul

One Meadow

What distance does the meadow grant when o’er its lay the anvil sounds in single hammered pings?
What journey does this plea incant as from this village home and ground the smithy’s hammer sings?

Ah!

Such bliss is this sweet pealing kiss of home and all I love.
Yea! My heart, in longing start, carries on the wind as dove.

For there my sweet, in song’s repeat, sings to my soul and to my mind,
that I may soon return to her and in our cottage garden find
her blushing in her quiet song,
singing soft and singing long.

Rapture! Cross this meadow long that carries length upon my stride,
as coursers swift in covenant, will bound me home unto my bride.

Till there upon the garden gate, my longing will no longer wait!
Unto my arms, in blushing charms, our hearts and souls in bliss,
witnessed by the meadow’s cheer, held in love’s eternal kiss!

… beyond it all, a simple call is carried on the wings
of anvil sounds cross meadow’s grounds, whereon the smithy’s hammer sings.

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Filed under Poetry, True Love