That Night

 

“… hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of life,
in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful
which God has implanted in the human soul.”
~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

The night breeze reached through
the open window like furtive fingers,
intermingling with the soft music that caressed the night air:
♪ ‘mountains of sorrow and rivers of song‘ ♫

the flickering flames of candles danced,
casting mosaic shadows against the divine visage
that smiled down upon us

the bubbling of the water pipe was reminiscent
of a flowing brook, lovingly murmuring into the night
as it reflected the luminous light of the moon

There were joyful sounds of laughter in the distance
occasionally sweeping through,
intermingling with the cadence of our hearts

Your eyes, so soft, so gentle ~
when they fell upon me, they caressed my soul..

I listened to your voice
as you read to me your poetry,
and sang to me your songs,
each word delicately wrapped and held by the music ~
then gently falling upon my ears
and deep into me..

.. deep into the subtle serenity of that  night
when sleeping spirits awakened
and dormant souls revived

You closed your eyes and your heart spoke
drawing inspiration from times long past
from a place deep within the ages
channeling the wisdom of sages..

Mesmerized
I find myself falling into your spell.

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Poetic Rain

He is in love
with God and poetry
A dreamer bent on ecstasy
On a promised date with destiny
he sails and sails the endless sea

She is in love
with God and the falling rain
A lover caught in a lover’s refrain
A passenger on passing trains
she roams and roams the barren plains

They are in love
with God and beautiful things
Two wanderers, each searching for their other wing
In hopeful prayer they greet each spring
anxiously awaiting what kismet brings

Though paths may cross and they find one another
will they recognize the gaze of their fated lover
Or searching,
searching will they ever remain
forever seeking poetic rain

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i long to hear the nightingale sing..

barren tree

I miss him
he was the poet in my poetry
the leaves of my poet tree;
and now this winter is so barren.

˜
I miss him
like the flowers miss the springtime
like the nightingale misses  its song;
and this silence is a deafening cacophony.

 ˜

I miss him
and I long to hear the nightingale sing
rather than recall it from memory..
before it becomes an unfamiliar fragrance
in my garden.

˜

I miss him.