Summer afternoon by the lake

Summer Lake
Jeanne Claesson

 

Summer afternoon by the lake

his lips softly pronouncing my name,

fingers strumming me into a song.

I knew then that I loved him so

and I could spend my days forevermore

seeing the sun rays spill all over him

on a summer afternoon by the lake.

Then he would close his eyes to form

my faint outline in his mind

and smile through all the sorrows

of having to say goodbye.

The wind would waltz with his curls

and dry the tears upon his cheek

and his lips would still sing my name

long after the noon would fade by the lake.

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The artist

Painting of a woman
(c) Serge Marshennikov

He loved art

like a lover, his beloved.

The paintbrush between his fingers

made soft love to the canvas

which, with each of his strokes,

became more alive and like a woman

endured the sweet torments of his love.

His deep dark eyes where pain resides

never alighted so lovingly on another sight.

He made art

like a lover made love

it made him wild

it set him free

and sometimes

you’d hope

to be his art.

The Moon makes me hopeful

Picture taken by Kritika Tripathi
(c) Kritika Tripathi

The Moon makes me hopeful.
And not because it shines over the dark
but because it makes me see the beauty of the deep night.
I can bathe in its silver waterfall
to forget the pain of lost love.
The Moon is for everyone to behold
and no one to own
for all to love and none to have.
But the sky was bereft of the Moon
and my heart of hope tonight.

Falling star

GettyImages-543217268-600x400
(c) Google search

Dearest, remember last December night

when a forlorn star fell from the sky?

And even as it beautifully burned,

it left a trail of ashes behind.

You followed the star as it faded from sight

and I followed a tear that rolled down your eye.

Dearest, I had so much to tell you then

but my words were lost in that view

where the star had fallen and died

and I, too, fell and died for you.

Dear faraway reader

 
Dear readers
(c) Henry Thomas

Dear faraway reader,

time and again have I pictured you

scrolling by my woeful words

your graceful fingers pausing for a while

your eyes lingering over the lines

a random smile painting your face.

And I have also pictured you

roughly scrolling by

sighing with disappointment

because it wasn’t my poem you were longing for Continue reading