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Monthly Archives: March 2017

This New Smile You Wear

This new smile you wear;
how it does play you well,
less obtrusive ‘mid shadow
of your softened, but withered brow.

Sing sweetly for my ears;
a sweet, breathless refrain,
some trembling of your lips,
the sigh you braved so firmly ‘gainst.

And how, like virgin youth,
did you but stain my life,
not with your private flesh,
but with your soft words upon release.

Yes, this smile you wear;
how it does lend me blythe,
shall I e’er be seen so wide
as in that gleam of your eye right now.

 
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Posted by on March 28, 2017 in My Poetry

 

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If But In Memory, Still You Hear, Then Sigh Once More

Have I the right to speak of you,
as orators e’er speak of the dead?
But, I dare not give eulogy
to your ethereal memory,
nor waste these precious words
either to contemplate or immortalize
your once felt presence on this Earth.

You had but to call my name,
and I was at once a king.

Your soft, wayward eyes,
like the tender fashion of sky,
were infinite in their scope,
yet intimate in their gaze.

Your hands had the reach
of a wildly raging fire,
whose flames could but touch
the crisp air above the rafters
of this, my aging heart,
which lent me shelter for a time.

Your grasp had the warmth
of a summer’s day in June,
with breezes of tropic heat
enclosing flesh of my advance.

Your faintest exhaled breath,
with but a whispered word,
could idle the windless fall
of a fragile Autumn leaf,
and dare break its stride
to your intended curve of air,
as if telling me some secret,
with but a sigh to my ear.

Your grace, notwithstanding,
bore merely a dance of limbs,
and could but lend shadow
to your passion once conferred.

And this, my sudden failing
of e’en my most desirous need,
had been by you long forgotten,
as was my empirical sway.

Yet, in your impregnable eyes,
no fault was given mine,
such strength still held you
in its distinctive embrace,
if but for duration of tide.

Have I then, with emergence,
the right to speak of you,
as if your ear yet heard sigh,
and your eyes gazed my way,
in what permanence was left me?

Then, speak, but soft, shall I,
to a voiceless reply in time,
which may yet hear my words.

I am thus rendered unmade,
that you had left imprint,
so marked upon my chest,
no pageant held your mirror,
and no star had shone for you;
but this tremble in my hand
as I now write this soliloquy,
may be the only sign of life
which e’er was mine at all.

 
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Posted by on March 11, 2017 in My Poetry

 

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