Musings of a Nascent Poet

  She kissed it as she mourned the awful price that she had paid.

  'O love,' she wept, 'I know my pride would send you in to fight

  And someday you would miss one move and day'd be endless night.

  Your death—I cannot cause it—so I saved with price of lies,

  Of hearing footsteps fading and of gazing in your eyes.'

  She struck the jade upon the floor; the sparks were emerald flame.

  She struck it till a single sharpened edge of jade remained.

  She sat there and remembered how his eyes looked when he left. . .

  With a strike of her jade-green knife, she took a final breath."

  And, as his lyrics faded,

  The minstrel saw her smile:

  "At last, you've made me happy,

  Though not in your usual style.

  Did you not know I wrote that,

  That you sang my sorrow's call,

  Sang the reason for my grief

  Despite this gilded hall."

  She smiled, but tears were in her eyes

  Once bright, now dimmed with time.

  "Yet, though I longed for gentle death,

  That death could not be mine.

  The King would hold him killer

  If my death was through his love.

  I lived—I lived in sorrow—

  And I wore the Emperor's glove. . .

  I hope his life grew wondrous,

  Yet, I hope he dreams of me,

  And thinks, for but a moment,

  Of the love that could not be.

  And, now, we could be happy

  For, at last, my hand's my own.

  But dreams will fade through thirty years;

  I'll live my years alone . . ."

  Lovelorn

  Unrequited or truncated love is a fairly common theme in tragic poetry and mine is no exception. I was (and to a lesser extent still am) a hopeless hopeless romantic. I'm not as idealistic as I once was or as fatalistic, but you can certainly get a sense of how a teenage girl (particularly an unpopular one) might think. Be warned. Some of it is downright maudlin. On the plus side, many were experiments for me in different sounds and using sound schemes to reinforce the theme. In that aspect, I'm quite proud of several of them.

  Love Song

  She said, "Love me . . .

  Can't you see how much I care?

  Love me

  And my heart I'll gladly share.

  Love me

  And forever I'll be true.

  Love me,

  For my heart belongs to you."

  He said, "Love me . . .

  For I want you by my side.

  Love me.

  Let me take you as my bride.

  Love me

  And I'll make my heart a slave.

  Love me

  And I'll love you 'til the grave."

  She said, "Love me,

  Let me hold you every day.

  Love me

  And don't ever go away.

  Love me

  And I'll play whatever role.

  Love me

  For you are my heart—my soul."

  He said nothing

  For there were no words to say

  For someone

  Was drawing him away.

  Another

  Who would "make his butt behave"

  And leave her,

  Her "he'd love until the grave."

  Teardrops

  Are as burning as the sun

  Reminders

  Of the man, the love, the one . . .

  She loved him

  Though he gladly slipped away.

  She cries now

  When she bows her head to say:

  "Love me

  For, without you, dreams are sand.

  Love me—

  Can't you feel my wasted hand?

  Love me

  And forever I'll be true.

  Love me

  For my heart belongs to you."

  The Echo

  I didn't know I loved him so

  Or know that he loved me.

  I didn't feel our love was real;

  Too blind I was to see.

  Pity every woman who has ever been so blind!

  And hear the echo echo in my mind.

  I let him know, 'twas free to go;

  I'd found another man.

  The look he gave, a tortured slave,

  Much more than I should stand,

  But then he kissed the hand of me who'd treated him unkind.

  I hear the echo echo in my mind.

  I now regret I told him that

  I loved him not at all.

  A change I'd need when I was freed,

  So, please, don' t even call.

  When I was through, his handsome face, though young, seemed old and lined.

  Oh! Hear the echo echo in my mind!

  I left alone, but heard a groan—

  Why didn't I turn back?

  His toughened heart was torn apart

  For only I could crack

  His heart which loved no other. Only for me did it shine.

  Dear God! The echo echoes in my mind!

  When I had left his heart bereft

  Of all that he adored

  He worked to gain and then attained

  All I was working for.

  He sent it as a gift to me! His heart I now can't bind!

  But I can hear the echo in my mind.

  Still unaware how much he cared,

  I met the other man,

  But in his place, I saw his face.

  I stopped what I began.

  Back to my love I turned to go; God how our travels wind!

  And hear the echo echo in my mind.

  When I returned, a fever burned.

  I opened up the door,

  But something new, a feeling grew

  I'd never felt before.

  I felt a certain emptiness that prickled up my spine

  And heard the echo echo in my mind.

  Oh! What a cost—my lover lost—

  And I had done it all!

  What misery as empty be

  My footsteps in the hall.

  The empty echoed footsteps that make my heartstrings grind—

  The empty echo echoes in my mind.

  He had not stayed and I had made

  Him leave without a trace.

  Though he loved me, how could he see

  My once remorseless face?

  How could I, with words unkind, leave the one I love behind—

  That lover that I cannot find? God, how could I have been so blind?

  Yet hear the echo echo in my mind?

  Guilt

  Strange voices softly call me—

  In the morning, through the night.

  They call me—sometimes different,

  Voices deep and low—then light.

  I can hear you! Do not taunt me!

  Who are you to criticize?

  Do not charge just me with sinning!

  There are others more unwise.

  Why do you not haunt the soldiers

  With their rifles by their sides

  Who send their noisy nightmares

  From the places that they hide?

  Why do you not torment spouses,

  Those unfaithful where they wed,

  Who leave their "loved ones" lonely

  While they warm another's bed.

  Why not haunt politicians

  Filling screens with ivory lies.

  They play their games with people's dreams

  Then hide with false replies.

  Why, voices, do you call me?

  Make me your tortured mate?

  And tell me of my life's mistakes

  And liltingly berate?

  Well, my mistake was foolish

  But he loves me still—I know,

  So go and find another soul

  To give
your murmured show.

  The Blind One

  They called the man "the blind one"

  And they looked through pity's eyes,

  Their eyes on such a barren man

  Who'd grown, too late, too wise.

  His eyes, once blue and laughing

  Have grown sad and darkly slate,

  And though they call him "blind one"

  He could see, but far too late.

  His eyes, so self-reliant

  Had once gazed at her with scorn,

  Her face so pale, uninteresting,

  Her long hair unadorned.

  Her eyes were pale, a common gray,

  But plain, though clear and bright,

  With nothing really there except,

  With him, they'd grow alight.

  She loved him, nay, adored him—

  All could see her love-sick daze,

  And she had not the wiles to hide

  That soft adoring gaze.

  All knew, he knew, suspected

  But he laughed at e'en the thought

  That with this sallow, boring girl,

  His future could be caught.

  Even hearts of constant faith

  Can only wait so long

  And she had never really dreamed

  His heart could come along.

  So, she had left, unloved, alone,

  But loving in her flight

  And when she'd gone so far away,

  She died one lonely night.

  The rain poured down that fateful night

  She gladly met with death.

  With whispered words of love for him,

  She spent that final breath.

  And he was home, relieved, alone,

  Relieved that she was gone

  Though he didn't know her soul had flown

  Before the wake of dawn.

  But, though "untouched", his heart would miss

  Her simple honest smile.

  His mind would hear that halting voice,

  That held no trace of guile.

  Recordings of her quiet laugh

  Would echo through his day

  His nights were haunted by her face

  And eyes of silver-gray.

  He found the pest, that heart-sick fool,

  Possessed him constantly

  And now he loved the beauty

  That, before, he would not see.

  The search began, then ended,

  With an wiser sadder man,

  Who'd thrown ambrosia all away

  For all he saw was sand.

  Boy Meets Girl

  When he met her, when he saw her,

  He did not know what he saw;

  He couldn't sense the picture that

  His fate with her would draw.

  Imagine his discomfiture

  When this girl he hardly knew

  Raised her molten eyes to his

  And whispered, "I love you."

  He hadn't seen her face before—

  This face he'd not forget—

  A touching smile and soulful eyes

  That glistened as if wet,

  Her velvet skin, her crimson lips. . .

  Well, what was he to do?

  To leave her, take her, ask her out?

  She just said, "I know you."

  She took his hand. He felt a thrill

  He didn't understand:

  One doesn't get excited from

  Just touching someone's hand!

  She gave him, then a melting look

  That warmed him through and through,

  And, before he'd chance to think,

  He told her, "I want you."

  Through many days and many nights

  He yearned her every touch,

  Her smile, her laugh, her soulful look. . .

  He loved them all so much,

  But never claimed to love her

  Though he knew that it was true,

  Just told her on the rainy nights,

  "I'm warm when I hold you."

  But could he hold this gentle girl?

  Her death was near at hand—

  An accident, a hospital,

  And dreams are changed to sand.

  She lay upon the sterile bed,

  Eyes wet with painful dew.

  He begged, "Don't leave me here alone!

  O God, how I need you!"

  He begged and pleaded all in vain;

  He knew she couldn't stay.

  She knew she could not grant his wish,

  So turned and looked away.

  "I'm sorry, love, for leaving you.

  I only live for you."

  Softly, she slipped into death.

  Then, he said, "I love you."

  How could she go? How could she die

  And leave him all alone?

  How could she so betray his heart?

  Desert his reverent throne?

  Pain fed anger's hungry mouth

  And how his fury grew!

  He spoke the words she'd never heard:

  "I hate you, girl, I do."

  But, even as he spoke the words,

  He knew they were a lie.

  He knew they were but bursts of pain;

  They were his anguished cry.

  His heart was weeping tears of blood

  For words of hate untrue,

  And also for his tragic loss.

  He prayed, "How I miss you!"

  And day by day he faded to

  A ghost, a former man.

  This shadow grew more lonely

  Reaching for an absent hand,

  But, often to the hopeless,

  Death is quick to take its due,

  And to the man, its kiss was dear.

  He sighed, "Now, I'm with you."

  Can You Hear Me Now?

  Oh, darling, can you hear me now?

  If only I could know.

  This song's for you beloved

  Cold and silent down below.

  I feel your breathing in my sleep

  And see your rose-blushed face.

  How could life leave you, love, so soon

  And leave your body waste.

  I can't believe that death can frost

  Those warming and blooming lips,

  Could call your soul away from mine,

  Yet, into death, you slipped.

  I know that you are here with me . . .

  But why will you not speak?

  Surely I can touch your hand

  Or feel your silken cheek—

  And, yet my hands touch only air:

  Your cheek's not in my reach.

  Unhappy souls where love can't touch:

  One death that murdered each.

  How can I see her moon-spawned eyes

  When she is past my sight?

  Is that soft sound her whispered breath

  Or just a breeze of night?

  My mem'ries cast my sense in doubt.

  Do I know what I see?

  Is that face pulled from mental drawer

  Or is she there for me?

  Or is she only in my mind,

  Her soul as dead as shell?

  And, in recesses of my soul,

  Does she find place to dwell?

  Throughout the caverns of my brain

  Can she, senseless, speak?

  So, can I touch her smiling face

  And never feel her cheek?

  When I, too, die, will I be gone

  To die with mem'ries film

  Or will I dance with my sweet wife

  Within her vaporous realm?

  The Stories of the Wind

  Have you ever heard the wind call?

  It calls to fools like me

  Reminds us what we dream of

  Yet cannot hope to see;

  It tells a thousand stories,

  Each one told differently.

  Do you wonder what the story is to me?

  Have you ever known what love was?
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  Love that cannot be described,

  That cannot be imprisoned

  And cannot be disguised,

  That has no thought of futures

  Just dreams on, starry-eyed

  And pulls you with a strength one can't deny?

  Have you ever loved a someone

  From the bottom of your soul,

  Whom you longed to do the world for

  But never asked control,

  Whose smile was all you wanted,

  Whose laughter made you whole—?

  You'd follow him to Hell and shovel coal.

  Then only you can hear it,

  Hear it on the breeze's moan,

  A song that says he's left you

  In a prison not of stone

  But of that awful emptiness

  That few have ever known

  Of knowing that, forever, you're alone.

  She calls to me and taunts me

  With his name upon her breath,

  She sings a song of mourning

  With a voice that's never wept.

  What can she know of sorrow

  When all you love has left,

  And all you have is wind-sung emptiness?

  Off the Beaten Path

  Given my natural eclecticism and odd-ball take on poetry, the notion that these poems are more off-kilter than others might seem silly. Truth is, they just didn't fit neatly into other categories, so the leftovers and some more experiments found their way here. For instance, the first poem, "Charley" is a strange three-line stanza format I'd never used before or since. If you've read my stories in Conjuring Dreams, chances are you read the prose "Charley." So, you'd know how it ends.

  Charley

  There once was a girl, young Virginia Dare,

  Who, bursting with love, lived to lavish her care

  On a rag-tattered critter, Charley the Bear.

  So many embraces to his battered head,

  So many kisses as they romped on the bed.

  "What a sweet twosome," the old people said.

  But nothing is perfect and Ginny got ill,

  And nothing could help her, not potion or pill.

  The grownups around her got terribly still.

  Burning with fever, she finally gave in

  To the fight for her life which she could not win,

  And breathed one last time, surrounded by kin.

  But parents and uncles, they have other dears

  To bring joy and love, to wipe away tears;

  Charley had no one. He'd been hers all those years.

  He could not cry in anguish or scream out in pain.

  As all through his existence, he couldn't complain.

  Now was no different; he was silent again.