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.
(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
to be his art.
(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.
(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.
(c) Jeff Barson
a passing fantasy
inspiring my poetic blues,
chief prophet of arts
teaching muses how to muse.
(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