Monday, September 5, 2011


at the home of my youth . . . I stand
in memory's place . . . 

gazing through time
a window sill sits crusted with age,
objects scattered
yet holding their place,
spiderweb trails lead to faded smudges
following dreams of unreasoned memories . . 

handwriting on a weathered strip of paper .. . 
where decades of lying in the sun . . .  the fly specks
shadow the poignant words
of yesterday . . .
and here in the dusk
a family is born . .  each day
a descendent of the other . . .
flowing like a river from the valley
to the desert . . .
where the dry rains never fell . . .
and dreams were left by the side of the road
to wither into strings of loss . . .
shadows on paper . ..
faces once young . . .
where did they go
why are they gone?
a faded rose, ashy and gray . .
a crooked row of cracked porcelain vases
filled with the smell of old house ..  ..
deserted . .  despised
the sunlight spills through half closed shutters . . .
specks of dust, flashes of light
lazily floating, twisting and fluttering
like the heartbeats of
planets or wayward stars,
stumbling through the unknown . .
suns to the unknowable . . .
detritus drifting around my ankles
reaching out tentacles of sorrow
and questions of what could have been . .
if only . ..
and then there is
tomorrow . . . 


Poetry . . . sheer poetry . . .
beauty ringing like a bell throughout
the music . . . creative and expressive
each song a different life-form . .
each heartbeat . . . each voice . ..
each melody a treasure . ..
a focus, a dream, a faded piece of yesterday,
flowing through my brain
like knowledge attained
as hope
and memories,
my dreams for yours . . .
sharing my place
beneath the umbrella . . .
holding your trembling hand
blind as you are
you guide me beneath
the all seeing star . . .
and the music slides down my back
like water drifting off my umbrella . .
voyaging through the muddy rivulets . . .
on my road . . .



syl said...

...and then there is tomorrow...
What a relief after the dark memories of which the melancholy is so beautifully expressed in this intimate poem.

CŒDES Pierre-Marie said...

Well . . . what do you know ? I see a cute lovely little girl, little brunette looking right into the eye of the camera freezing a moment of life : a family, parents, brother and sister, and a little one, right in the middle, eyes full of hopes, dreams and expectations I met decades later, still walking on the path of her life, but hand in hand with me, sharing the present even if we don't know what happened to us earlier, oh well, almost, because we share, don't we?

By the way, wouldn't you try — if you feel like it and if you have time, and the technical possibility — to record your poems to put on the side of the writing ? It would be so nice, for me at least, to hear you voice saying your poetry. To be frank, I would love it, and the idea just thrills me.

Hug. PM

Wolfsong said...

Thank you for your comment, Syl. . . and yours PM . . . I do have the ability to read my poems . . . with or without music BUT I'm not sure how to publish them so I can apply them to the blog . . .

Its a good idea . . . if anyone has some thoughts let me know . . .

Hugs to all . . .

P.S. Just another thought . . . you two are so poetic . . .

CŒDES Pierre-Marie said...

Without music, your voice only, that would be grand.