On calfskin created, a beauty in youth!
A master’s creation, none can dispute!
Her auburn tresses and complexion fair!
Who created her image, who can declare?
Italian princess or cashier from Bolton?
Either way for me, the image is golden!
He can knock up a Moran in half of an hour?
And fool all the pros, even the most dour?
White lead was a tile, nicked from a roof?
An unlikely tale with no logic or proof!
So what do you think, the swiftest forgery?
Or really a princess, drawn by Da Vince?
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/La_Bella_Principessa
Tears no longer come,
dried ducts of wrung emotion,
denied one more drop of release.
... but only to feel
Feel your finite presence beside me,
inhaling your sweet scent to memory.
Feel your heart pulsate through the calfskin
of the despair that seals me in its snare.
Rhythms of a hopeless eternity of love,
not destined for us.
Feel my heart bleeding for one more glimpse,
of the exquisite life and love in your eyes.
Shuttered now from a lifetime of shared souls.
The pianist plays one last song,
as tears fall upon your coffin.
Won't you give me a sign,
to show me the way to you.
I wonder what has become of me,
my soul a definition of despair,
my mind a metaphor for insanity,
my heart silenced by the loss of your call.
Above, all I see are murky skies,
even the stars hide from me.
I'm sure the moon shed a tear,
when the sun refused to shine on me.
In the hope there is no tomorrow,
I lay here with your photograph on my pillow.
... but time ticks so slowly.
20 September 2018
Collaboration with Judith S
Tears no longer come,
dried ducts of wrung emotion,
denied one more drop of release.
... but only to feel
Feel your finite presence beside me,
inhaling your sweet scent to memory.
Feel your heart pulsate through the calfskin
of the despair that seals me in its snare.
Rhythms of a hopeless eternity of love,
not destined for us.
Feel my heart bleeding for one more glimpse,
of the exquisite life and love in your eyes.
Shuttered now from a lifetime of shared souls.
The pianist plays one last song,
as tears fall upon your coffin.
Won't you give me a sign,
to show me the way to you.
I wonder what has become of me,
my soul a definition of despair,
my mind a metaphor for insanity,
my heart silenced by the loss of your call.
Above, all I see are murky skies,
even the stars hide from me.
I'm sure the moon shed a tear,
when the sun refused to shine on me.
In the hope there is no tomorrow,
I lay here with your photograph on my pillow.
... but time ticks so slowly
__________________________________
A Collaboration - Silent One & Judith S.
September 21, 2018
Alone I revel in nature’s splendor
Biding my time without daily worries intruding
Can I remain here forever?
Daydreams assure me I may
Even though time seems to stand still
For I am at peace
Gusts of wind brush across the creek
Hair is tousled, yet it matters not
I choose to inhale the fresh air without care
Joyfully taking pleasure in my repose
Keeping my mind occupied by writing
Little letters, describing the finery of the surrounding forest
Musings they are
Notes of thanks to Mother Nature
On a sheet of finest calfskin, stolen from Grandpa’s desk
Parchment I inscribe slowly in script
Quill used as my pen, recalling communications of yesteryear
Rest is effortless on such a day
Smiling, I watch dusk overcome the sun
Taking a luminous glow from the sky
Until long shadows of sentinel trees are cast
Very slowly a thunderstorm forms to the south
Will St. Francis hear my whisper?
Xavier, indeed, recruits a companion
Young spotted owl escorts me safely home
ZZZs of sleep reflect my tranquility
So cinch tight my shimmering dark sorrel
With fine hand-tooled saddle of silver inlay—
I’ll pull on my calfskin chaparajos
And through that old heartpine gate I’ll ride away.
I’ve been too long on this sagebrush prairie.
Through many a rancho gate welcome and not—
With some I stayed and herded and prospered,
While with some I gave up much more than I got.
But I’ve rode toward that last gate in my life
And next that rosadero I’ll sit for awhile—
Until that bright entryway swings open
And I ride in meek and accepting as a child.
So cinch tight my shimmering dark sorrel
With fine hand-tooled saddle of silver inlay—
I’ll pull on my calfskin chaparajos
And through that old heartpine gate I’ll ride away.
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