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Best Poems Written by George Leblanc

Below are the all-time best George Leblanc poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Thinking of You Before I Sleep

If I think about you before I sleep,
Will you come to me in a dream?
And of what body, this dream,
Alive and as life, or distant from my touch,
As when we do not touch in dreams, or cannot move to touch.
Can I call you there by the thought of you,
And keep you there by the love of you?

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Going Down

Can a man go down among the dead?
	Can he lie in his oblong box – his long house forever,
	and be satisfied with never holding his heart’s desire?
	Will he be at home in the musty earth where the worm gropes in the dark and 
	damp?
          Will he finally find that peace for so long sought, where he is alone in the cold
	and dark and damp.  
	Will the grin of death begin to show on his placid face to any who might    
	understand?
	Will it show to those that might understand?
	Is he hidden away so low, as low as he might go?
	But he was enjoying bright sunny days, and then the smell of acrid earth;
	so soon, all too soon

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Autumn Among the Stones

I sit among the stones under a lowering October sky, longing to see more than others have seen,

And tarry where the hurried have passed.

And sit, remembering streets of earth, and hooped

Black dresses trailing the dirt.

And watch agape as a brief cortege enters the gate, and I

Follow quietly until they pause where the small recesses wait.

And as the mourners weep, I reach to comfort and they are no more.

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The Conflict Within

Conflicts have raged upon the disputed soils of earth since before men began to record them.  But there have been other conflicts less recorded, less lauded, but more redoubtable, oh, so much more.  These were no less bloody than those who drained the life from promising generations, but they were more certain in their calculated rage, and arguably precipitated those lesser skirmishes.  For they did not inhabit those regions of memorialized ground, but were carried within by those who fell there, and were carried away by those who lived to tell.  For these were those conflicts within men of which none other could compare.  In ferocity they were rivaled by none, and of that blood which flowed, unnumbered  hearts proved an endless wellspring to slake the thirst of a thousand earths.  And so, from the lacerated soul pours a bitter bile, a perpetual disquiet.  This is the madness within every walking corpse, the insanity shadowing every potential good.  Such is a sadness beyond all tears ever shed.  It is the mutant upheaval within every son of man.  Bowels of a deep and groaning lament, seething within and without; the fetid breath of a million rages.  It is the conflict within... G.R.L.

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The Cat Who Played Piano

There was a cat who played piano,
And the story I tell is true,
But he wouldn't play for me,
And he wouldn't play for you.
He played only for the dog,
Who thought it a hilarious sight,
But the cat played only for him,
And he only played at night.
The neighbors were quite puzzled,
For it was very late, you see,
But the cat cared not at all,
For he had nowhere to be.
So the cat walked up and down,
On those keys so gently,
And quite on purpose, and not accidentally. 
The dog wagged his tail, when cat outstretched his paws,
And they both enjoyed the concert, to only dog's applause.

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A Change of Heart

If fear was not so much a part,
A part of our lives, a part of our heart,
Would we climb much higher and higher still,
Than we ever imagine we would or will?
Would we say the things we need to say,
And have no regret at the close of day,
And never miss a chance just to be kind,
Resisting agreement with hearts that are blind.
And write a poem, a book, or a play,
And care very little for what others might say,
Doing the right thing because it is right,
Eschewing the darkness and choosing the light,
And to allow the yearning heart to reveal,
With consideration to how others might feel.
And reaching forth to take a chance,
On dreams, on love, or even romance.
So if fear was not so much a part,
A part of our lives, a part of our heart,
We could climb higher and higher still,
Than we ever imagined we would or will.

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Beneath the Evening Lamplight

Beneath the evening lamplight, I sit on nature's floor
Entreating those emerging from their crystal paneled doors,
To ask a single farthing, or penny they might give,
And grant this humble beggar, a means where I might live.
And as they come and go each night they disdain to notice me,
For beneath the evening lamplight, my cup is all they see.
The carriages they click and clack upon the cobblestones,
As highborn men and ladies, go to and from their homes.
And as the snuffer has made his round, and morning chased the night,
I'll drag these lifeless legs along and wait for end of light.
For beneath the evening lamplight is my place on nature's floor,
Entreating those emerging from their crystal paneled doors.

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The Legacy

The sweating crowd breathed the stifling air,
    As four hooded figures quietly hanging there,
    Swayed back and forth without a breeze,
    While eyes could not avert from these.

    And as gleaming bayonets reflected the Sun,
    A flag in tatters and conciliation of one,
    And that one gone, a powerful friend,
    Who would have pleaded a merciful end.

    And then being taken by fanatical schemes,
    An end ignominious, predicted in dreams.
    So with the terrible carnage done,
    Was it over or had it just begun?

    And who knew what part these hanging would play,
    A legacy lasting to this very day.

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Diamond Tears

Tears are liquid diamonds, mined from the soul.
Nothing within us so reveals our most perfect and
	Raw emotions as do the genuine tears we shed.
For smiles are easy, dispensed with little truth or effort.
Tears are hard, arising from the depth of a labored soul.
So, labor on my soul, and consider not to smile.
My flesh will attend to smiling, for those who matter
	Little, and care less.
But you, my soul, cry, and offer up those diamond tears.

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Dream Street

Oh, the many nights I have walked along the
	Lamp-lit lane of Dream Street, passing
	All the musing dreamers languishing there,
	Like those who chase the dragon as their
	Refuge from the world, and along that street, those
        Leaning lamppost stand, caressed like lovers,
	Held for comfort from the grief of unrealized
	Desire and hopes unfulfilled, as the singers
        And writers who pretend to fame, and 
	Poets prattle endless lines upon lines for an
	Elusive rhyme; but sadness is the poem they
	Write, for their dream is as a mist before the
	Garish Sun, melting yearning into tears which 
	Stain morning's pillow - the fantasy interrupted -
	And Dream Street succumbs to an austere daylight
	Until eyes close again, and we vagabonds stroll 
	Along that windswept street, strewn with the pages
	Of hope and the heavy sighs of dreams denied.