You've Been On My Mind

You've been on my mind,
Each of my thoughts whispers your name
Now I only have claim,
Over memories of your smile,
I yearn to once again touch your face
To play in your presence's grace,
Just for a while

Chasing fire flies,
Hoping their light will shine on me
Rescue me from the darkness your absence has thrown over me,
Without you I'm a window without a pane
I would do anything, just to hold you in my arms again,
Just for a while

I still cry for you,
My tears echo the beats of a lonely heart
Once enchanted by love, now torn apart
I still have your pictures in the frame,
Staring at memories wishing things were the same,
Just for a while

It has been 7  months since the day you left
Still everyday I wish I could tell you how much,
You've been on my mind.

When I look Into Your Eyes

When I look into your eyes I see an imprint
An imprint of lifes heavy hand imparing your vision

When I look into your eyes I see a smile
A smile enslaved by melancholy
Screaming to be free from the agony
When I look into your eyes I see a flower

A flower trapped in shade's net,
Yearning for sunlight like a drowning man gasping for breath

When I look into your eyes I see a mirror

A mirror reflecting the ramification of pain and hardship
That your life has been adorned with

When I look into your eyes I see hope

I see hope smothered by a blanket of depression,
Yet endeavouring to peer through its linen

When I look into your eyes I see a bird traped in cages of inhibition

Incapable of experincing the exstacy of the wind, Its undecided decisions

When I look into your eyes I see smoke

Smoke flurring from your inate flame of greatness that burns unperceived

Like a tree ingnorant of its leaves

In your eyes I see a heart enflamed and a soul enchanted by vanity

Incapable of resisting, it pulls you down like gravity
In your eyes I see scars stored
The scars garnered from the falls you've endured

When I look into your eyes I see a soldier marching on a slim diet

With feet that are heavy but with steps that are quiet
In your eyes I see with clarity,
rumors of happiness that you prevent from entering the ears of reality
When I look into your eyes I see a child crying and each
Droplet of tears is a poem of sadness expressing the unexpressed
Emotions that hardened your heart, but in reality mainly due to pride
The heart is still hardened because that child never cried

When I look into your eyes I see precipitation, then I realize fast

Its just a reflection of the clouds in your skys telling stories of the past 

When I look into your eyes I'm surprise by what I see

for I realize im infront of a mirror, so I'm seeing....



This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Passion

Your smile faded

Your face became one filled with seriousness
Your hand touched my skin with unendurable tenderness
Your eyes flicked with heat,
With passion, love everything except sadness
You held me, I was silently captured
By the fire that burnt with intensity and for once
I felt that completeness
Still weakened I fought a battle
Not knowing the out come
But knowing I no longer wanted to be a prisoner of
Loneliness, so I held on to your touches and I was
Driven to sweet unconsciousness
And when i was awaken
I was held close by your manliness

By Stacey-Ann Kelly

Dont Quit

When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,
When the road you're trudging seems all uphill,
When the funds are low and the debts are high,
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh,
When care is pressing you down a bit,
Rest, if you must, but don't you quit.

Life is queer with its twists and turns,
As every one of us sometimes learns,
And many a failure turns about,
When he might have won had he stuck it out;
Don't give up though the pace seems slow--
You may succeed with another blow.

Often the goal is nearer than,
It seems to a faint and faltering man,
Often the struggler has given up,
When he might have captured the victor's cup,
And he learned too late when the night slipped down,
How close he was to the golden crown.

Success is failure turned inside out--
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt,
And you never can tell how close you are,
It may be near when it seems so far,
So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit--
It's when things seem worst that you must not quit

Life's Mirror

There are loyal hearts, there are spirits brave,
There are souls that are pure and true;
Then give to the world the best that you have,
And the best will come back to you.

Give love, and love to your life will flow,
A strength in your utmost need;
Have faith, and a score of hearts will show
Their faith in your work and deed.

Give truth, and your gift will be paid in kind,
And honor will honor meet;
And the smile which is sweet will surely find
A smile that is just as sweet.

Give sorrow and pity to those who mourn;
You will gather in flowers again
The scattered seeds from your thought outborne
Though the sowing seemed but vain.

For life is the mirror of king and slave,
'Tis just what we are and do;
Then give to the world the best that you have
And the best will come back to you.
By Madeline S Bridges

The Clothesline Said So Much

A clothesline was a news forecast
To neighbors passing by.
There were no secrets you could keep
When clothes were hung to dry.

It also was a friendly link
For neighbors always knew
If company had stopped on by
To spend a night or two.

For then you'd see the fancy sheets
and towels on the line;
You'd see the comp'ny table clothes
With intricate design.

The line announced a baby's birth
To folks who lived inside
As brand new infant clothes were hung
So carefully with pride.

The ages of the children could
So readily be known
By watching how the sizes changed
You'd know how much they'd grown.

It also told when illness struck,
As extra sheets were hung;
Then nightclothes, and a bathrobe, too,
Haphazardly were strung.

It said, "Gone on vacation now"
When lines hung limp and bare.
It told, "We're back!" when full lines sagged
With not an inch to spare.

New folks in town were scorned upon
If wash was dingy gray,
As neighbors raised their brows, and looked
Disgustedly away.

But clotheslines now are of the past
For dryers make work less.
Now what goes on inside a home
Is anybody's guess

I really miss that way of life.
It was a friendly sign
When neighbors knew each other best
By what hung on the line!

Memories

Memories are heartbeats Sounding through the years Echoes never fading Of our smiles and our tears. Moments that are captured Sometimes unaware Pictured in an album Or a lock of hair. Images that linger Deep within the mind Bit of verse we cherished Once upon a time. Through the musty hallways Of the days we knew Ever comes the vision Beautiful and true. Memories are roses Blooming evermore Full of fragrant sweetness Never known before. Life must have a meaning Goals for which to strive Memories are lights that burn To keep the heart alive. By Grace E. Easley

Point of View

I’ve heard it said it all depends
Upon your point of view,
The happiness you get from life,
And how things look to you.
And the longer that I’m living,
I’ve really come to see,
That this is just as true a fact,
As anything could be.

If you always look for sorrow,
Then you’ll have it seven-fold,
If you go in search of rainbows,
You will find a pot of gold.
If you have no time for dreaming,
The days are dark and grey,
But with a little bit of hope,
Your troubles slip away.

Don’t waste your time in sighing,
When the world is full of song,
Don’t live among the shadows,
That is not where you belong.
Lift your face and feel the sunlight,
Smell the flowers in teh wood,
And be grateful you are living,
…And know that God is good.

by Grace E. Easley

Living

To touch the cup with eager lips and taste, not drain it;
To woo and tempt and court a bliss -- and not attain it;
To fondle and caress a joy, yet hold it lightly,
Lest it become necessity and cling too tightly;
To watch the sun set in the west without regretting;
To hail its advent in the east -- the night forgetting;
To smother care in happiness and grief in laughter;
To hold the present close -- not questioning hereafter;
To have enough to share -- to know the joy of giving;
To thrill with all the sweets of life -- is living.

The Want of You

The want of you is like no other thing;
It smites my soul with sudden sickening;
It binds my being with a wreath of rue-
This want of you.

It flashes on me with the waking sun;
It creeps upon me when the day is done;
It hammers at my heart the long night through-
This want of you.

It sighs within me with the misting skies;
Oh, all the day within my heart it cries,
Old as your absence, yet each moment new
This want of you.

Mad with demand and aching with despair,
It leaps within my heart and you are-
where?

God has forgotten, or he never knew-
This want of you.

I Want You

I want you when the shades of eve are falling
and purpling shadows drift across the land;
When sleepy birds to loving mates are calling
I want the soothing softness of your hand.

I want you when the stars shine up above me,
And Heaven's flooded with the bright moonlight;
I want you with your arms and lips to love me
Throughout the wonder watches of the night.

I want you when in dreams I still remember
The ling'ring of your kiss-for old times' sake-
With all your gentle ways, so sweetly tender,
I want you in the morning when I wake.

I want you when the day is at it's noontime,

Sun-steeped and quiet, or drenched with sheets of rain;
I want you when the roses bloom in June time;
I want you when the violets come again.

I want you when my soul is thrilled with passion;

I want you when I'm weary and depressed;
I want you when in lazy, slumbrous fashion
My senses need the haven of your breast.

I want you when through field and wood I'm roaming;
I want you when I'm standing on the shore;
I want you when the summer birds are homing
And when they've flown - I want you more and more.

I want you, dear, through every changing season;
I want you with a tear or with a smile;
I want you more than any rhyme or reason -
I want you, want you, want you - all the while.

By Arthur Gillom

Myself

I have to live with myself and so
I want to be fit for myself to know.
I want to be able as days go by,
always to look myself straight in the eye;
I don't want to stand with the setting sun
and hate myself for the things I have done.
I don't want to keep on a closet shelf
a lot of secrets about myself
and fool myself as I come and go
into thinking no one else will ever know
the kind of person I really am,
I don't want to dress up myself in sham.
I want to go out with my head erect
I want to deserve all men's respect;
but here in the struggle for fame and wealth
I want to be able to like myself.
I don't want to look at myself and know that
I am bluster and bluff and empty show.
I never can hide myself from me;
I see what others may never see;
I know what others may never know,
I never can fool myself and so,
whatever happens I want to be
self respecting and conscience free.

By Edgar Guest

The Most Beautiful Flower

The park bench was deserted as I sat down to read,
Beneath the long, straggly branches of an old willow tree.
Disillusioned by life with good reason to frown,
For the world was intent on dragging me down.

And if that weren’t enough to ruin my day,
A young boy out of breath approached me, all tired from play.
He stood right before me with his head tilted down,
And said with great excitement, “Look what I found!”

In his hand was a flower, and what a pitiful sight,
With it’s petals all warn down-not enough rain, or to little light.
Wanting him to take his dead flower and go off to play,
I faked a smile and then shifted away.

But instead of retreating he sat next to my side,
And placed the flower to his nose and declared
with overacted surprise,
“It’s smells pretty and it’s beautiful too.
That’s why I picked it; here it’s for you!”

The weed before me was dying or dead.
Not vibrant of colors, orange, yellow or red.
But I knew I must take it, or he might never leave.
So I reached for the flower and replied, “Just what I need.”

But instead of him placing the flower in my hand,
He held it mid-air without reason or plan.
It was then that I noticed for the very first time,
That the weed-toting boy could not see, he was blind.

I heard my voice quiver, tears shone like the sun,
As I thanked him for picking the very best one.
“You’re welcome” he smiled and then ran off to play,
Unaware of the impact he’s had on my day.

I sat there and wondered how he managed to see,
A self-pitying woman beneath an old willow tree.
How did he know about my self-indulged plight?
Perhaps from his heart, he’d been blessed with true sight.

Through the eyes of a blind child, at last I could see,
The problem was not with the world; the problem was me.
And for all of those times I myself had been blind,
I vowed to see the beauty in life, & appreciate
every second that’s mine.

And then I held that wilted flower up to my nose
and breathed in the fragrance of a beautiful rose.
And I smiled as I watched that young boy,
another weed in his hand,
About to change the life of an unsuspecting old man.

 by Alan D. Brechbiel

On Joy & Sorrow

In our lives we seek only Joy and Happiness,
and damn the sorrow that plagues us;
Never acknowledging that the one
cannot exist without the other.
For our Joy and Sorrow are inseparable
each providing definition for the other;
Just as there can be no shadow without
the brightness of sunlight


It is from the depths of our Sorrow
that we gauge the height of our Ecstasy.
The mountain seems all the more majestic
when seen from the valley floor.
The deeper that our Sorrow carves into our heart
the more room to fill with our Joy.
And the well from which our laughter rises
must first be filled with our tears.

By Dag & Maya

The Byzantine Portrait

It has blue skies and sunny days
Its a picture that exudes joy and create smiles
It a picture that is graceful in all its ways
Its a picture that's captivating  from  miles

This picture is entrancing, its colours will make you kneel
Its manipulative, like it has a mind of its own
To many  this picture is an achilles heel
This picture has the ability to turn hearts to stone

It has gray skies and rainy days
Its forboding dark clouds induces sad feelings
Its antagonistic and paradoxical in so many ways
Yet this picture give explanation to a myriad of meanings

This picture is confusing and difficult to comprehend
Those blinded by it are moisturized with euphoria
Those hurt by its design are caution's best friends
Its like they're vitiated with a kind of trust phobia

By staring at this picture you’ll l become hypnotized
But by just staring at this picture you wont see the art
For this picture is equivocal if you’re looking with your eyes
To truly see this picture you must look with your heart

This picture takes you on a journey when ever your eyes glance it
A journey full of roses with long peaked thorns
This journey is perilous you’ll just have to chance it
It’s much like an handshake, just trust in the grasp it forms

This picture can be afflictive if you’re viewing it by yourself
It will have you imagining and remembering like that's its sole duty
Your heart may feel heavy like its carrying books on a shelf
When you hopelessly imaging, reminiscing about its beauty

This picture can motivate you to conquer your fears
and rise above
You see this picture is painted in hearts,
cause this picture is L.....

War

Every time that song plays people are left crying
Every time they hear its tune they grieve
It makes you wonder what it would be like dying
It encourages violence and joy it reaves


The brave tremble when they listen its lyrics
Flowers bend their heads in terror
This song is a grave song, no jokes no gimmicks
Yet some move to its tune with pleasure


Its rhythm induces death and pain
It steals all hope of a harmonious future
For it to cease many plead in vain
Please god tame this apoplectic creature


Some numb by its beats try crying but cannot cry
Some endeavour to run away from its melodies
Others with their hopes lost turn their heads to the sky
Wondering why they have to endure such tragedies


This is a long and enduring song
Many wonder will it end completely
Or will it in years, or months, play again.

Lost in translation

Poetry is not a thought expressed.
It is a song that rises
from a bleeding wound

or a smiling heart.
Just as trees are like poems that
the earth writes upon the sky.
We fell them down and turn them
into paper that we may
record our emptiness.
The words of a poem
are like the panes of a window,
through which you can see the truth
but keeps you ever separated.
To understand a poem,
you must see with your soul.
To write a poem you must

dip the pen into your heart.
For your dreams are like
a bird free in space
that in a cage of words may
unfold its wings but cannot fly.
For a poem is not a need
but an ecstasy,
a heart enflamed and a soul enchanted
The beauty of a poem is Eternity
gazing at itself in a mirror,
an image you see
though your eyes are closed.
You would know in words that
which you already know in thought.
But in the writing of the poem
you murder the passion of your heart,
for you cannot touch
the naked body of your dreams.