A prodigal - the sheepish one, the one searching for peace. I'm back, guilty and comforted by the essence that murmurs in these waters.
How long shall I stay? I know not. But I know that for now, I'm here, I'm almost home.
bringing back to life the
pleasantness of all that is spring,
youth and content.
Share with me the secret
of life on these windy cliffs
a river carved through a mountain
immemorial times ago.
Let me listen to the rhythm
of your heartbeat,
the genteel whoosh of
a murmur – or
is it the water I hear
rushing below us
as we stand together
basking in a spring sunset?
Tell me the stories
that carved each line of you,
etched each curve.
Were they knights
that first fell in love
with your homely scents
or were they warriors
checking their steeds
at the memory
of a stolen first kiss?
Or were they Viking sailors
with blue eyes
and insignificant boats
bobbing on the river
before returning to
the conquering majesty
of their ship, carrying
news of you,
you pink-and-white-robed minstrel?
I stand here and watch
as you sparkle
in the dewy evening,
ensconced in birdsong
and whinnying horses
and the smell of rich soil
awakening around you.
Poetry by Arti
Read 1024 times
Written on 2008-06-10 at 07:35
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
How long shall I stay? I know not. But I know that for now, I'm here, I'm almost home.
(untitled)
Gnarled fingers touching, soothing,bringing back to life the
pleasantness of all that is spring,
youth and content.
Share with me the secret
of life on these windy cliffs
a river carved through a mountain
immemorial times ago.
Let me listen to the rhythm
of your heartbeat,
the genteel whoosh of
a murmur – or
is it the water I hear
rushing below us
as we stand together
basking in a spring sunset?
Tell me the stories
that carved each line of you,
etched each curve.
Were they knights
that first fell in love
with your homely scents
or were they warriors
checking their steeds
at the memory
of a stolen first kiss?
Or were they Viking sailors
with blue eyes
and insignificant boats
bobbing on the river
before returning to
the conquering majesty
of their ship, carrying
news of you,
you pink-and-white-robed minstrel?
I stand here and watch
as you sparkle
in the dewy evening,
ensconced in birdsong
and whinnying horses
and the smell of rich soil
awakening around you.
Poetry by Arti
Read 1024 times
Written on 2008-06-10 at 07:35
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
|
Esti D-G |
|
Kathy Lockhart |
|
Elle |
|
Rob Graber |
