Musings of a Nascent Poet
But though he was silent, his heartbreak was clear
To those who would listen, but not with their ears
For his was the torment that no one could hear . . .
A room in the house, away back in the rear,
There rests a small bed with an old teddy bear.
On the quilt by its foot lays one golden hair.
A bear has no feelings. It really can't cry
For one little girl who was its earth and sky,
But if you look closely, there's a tear in its eye.
"The Dewdrop/The Teardrop" were really an exercise in language and perception, in that, how one perceives something (dewdrop vs. teardrop for instance) flavors our view on its significance and how using language to describe something that looks exactly the same also can affect how we perceive it. These are (as you've probably caught on by now) among my shortest poems, which is one reason they won some sort of lower level prize in a poetry contest. (Poetry contests frequently have very short requirements, some as short as twenty lines, that leave the bulk of my work ineligible.) It might have been submitted under my name at the time, Stephanie Loyd, but I can't remember for certain.
The Dewdrop
The dewdrop
On the thistle
As it sparkles in the light—
There is no hint of sorrow
In its crystalline delight.
There is no hint of anger
Or of nights of tortured dreams,
No signs of guilty pathos
Sing out from cheery beams,
But, is there disappointment
And sorrow deep, deep down,
As the teardrop
On the thistle
Falls softly to the ground?
The Teardrop
The teardrop
On the petal
As it slides down toward its fall—
There is no hint of happiness,
No hint of joy at all.
From those cool depths, how could one
Find the sparkle of relief,
Or hear the silver laughter
From a voice once choked with grief?
But, maybe there is sunlight there,
Despite the cloudy day,
As the teardrop
On the petal
Winks once, then slips away.
Sometimes, I have no idea where a poem came from. My subconscious has always done the heavy lifting when it came to writing and I'm often as surprised as anyone what falls from my "pen." That's applicable to the next few poems.
Song of the Seasons
Waiting for the birdsong
The first sweet sounds of spring
That herald hints of greenery
That warming days will bring
Waiting for the cotton clouds
That paint the azure sky
That soften hazy summer days
As, lazily, they fly.
Waiting for the crisping leaves
Whose crackles speak of fall
That coat the ground, in brittle mounds,
That hint of winter's call.
Waiting for those fleecy flakes
That shine like fairy land
With crystal ice and lacy snow—
Then wait for spring again.
Wonder
Tomorrow, let us hear the words
That ring within our minds
And wonder at the visions
That flash across our blinds.
The dreams that dwell within us
But will vanish in a haze,
Yet form again when half-asleep:
A mist from drowsing days.
Perhaps when we are far from here
And age has bleached our souls,
The wonder of forgotten dreams
Will bloom and make us whole
For what more can our dreams pretend
To do than tempt our thoughts
With mem'ries of what-could-have-been,
What might and yet was not?
Questions
There are questions running through my head
That always sound the same
And I cannot find the answers in
The niches of my brain.
All the answers seem so distant
And my love seems distant, too.
Have I found my way inside his heart
This man I wish to woo?
Do I send his senses reeling
In the way my senses reel?
Does he feel the things I'm feeling?
Would he rush to my appeal?
Does he even know I love him
Or does he wish to know?
Does he think that I'm above him
Or much too far below?
Does he love me? Does he hate me?
Does he like me, nothing more?
Would he kiss me or berate me
If I let him know for sure?
Can he feel my heartbeat beating beating
Calling out his name?
Does he know my breath is fleeting fleeting?
Does he feel the same?
I wonder what he's feeling
'Cause, to me, it never shows,
And I wonder if he wonders
If I wonder if he knows.
These next two might have been "original epics" but they're really too short. Not sure where they came from either.
The Traveler
Tonight, he stands on the corner
With a whisky in his hand.
He has been on every corner
In this corner of the land.
They say he waits for his woman
And travels from town to town.
He always waits on the corner
And she always lets him down.
Women see and come right to him;
They invite him for the night,
But he always says, "No, thank you,"
For the woman isn't right.
Did he know her? Did she leave him?
Did they never even meet?
Is he waiting for the woman
Who can make his soul complete?
If she's out there—and she loves him—
Surely, she'd be there,
But she isn't; he's alone still.
Does he know she cannot care?
But I love him and I want him
And I pray that he will see
That the woman he is waiting for,
Well, maybe, she is me.
You won't find him on the corner
Where the lamplight o'er him shines
For he won't need any corner
If he lets me make him mine.
The Pilgrim
The pilgrim sails a harsh ocean.
His course is erratic, unsure
For who can imagine his heartbreak,
The pressures this mortal endures.
He drifts by the isle of a Venus,
Who knows none but herself in her soul,
Who holds men in thrall with an insincere smile,
Who longs not for love but control.
He skims near the isle of Minerva,
The Goddess of Wisdom, of Peace,
But feels he's not worthy, not ready for rest
For his clamoring heart will not cease.
On his left is the isle of Diana,
As free as the moon she calls friend,
But he loves her freedom as much as herself
And must leave her wild in the end.
He knows that his life echoes lonely
And looks on the isles with sad eyes.
Yet he knows he has nothing to offer these loves,
And knows that his words would be lies.
So he sends his frail boat ever onward
And prays that he finds what he needs,
Prays that he finds what his Venus once stole
To succor a self-serving greed.
Perhaps, if he finds it, he'll sail back
Run aground
on a crystalline shoal,
But first, there is someone he still has to find.
But first, he must find his own soul.
So he sails, though the wind is not with him,
And stares, haunted eyes at the waves
And prays that when finally he rescues himself
They'll be more than a shadow to save.
This, among my poetry, is the most unique and it has an interesting story. I took a creative writing class in college that (as the professor told me to my face) was largely wasted on me and, truth told, most of what I generated in that class I tossed without regret. This poem was an assignment to listen to radio (commercials, some talk, some music) and write down everything we heard. Then, using only phrases we picked up from the hour of radio, write a poem. This is the only free verse sort of poem I've ever written and, for some reason, it appeals to me anyway, even though it is far more cryptic than I usually am.
The Old Dilemma
The future has a way of taking strange twists.
What do you do? What do you do?
He wants to take from me—
Take control.
I get nothing out of it.
I was never quite sure.
Maybe he didn't mean it . . .
"You were meant to be with me . . .
You must have come from my imagination . . .
Now, I know what lovers always knew . . .
I'll never hurt you . . .
Make sure you never have to cry again.
I want you;
I love you . . . "
Maybe . . . he meant things like that.
Then, you get married and it's like they realize you're a possession.
"I saw you looking at him!"
What do you mean?
He says he just wants a woman who's honest.
I'm not a bad person! Not a bad person
I remember . . .
"You make my heart sing."
Create heat
To the beat
To the heartbeat,
A working throb.
You make me sparkle, too.
He loves me for what I am.
I found someone like you said would come along.
Something is very right . . .
"I saw you looking at him!"
Who will not judge?
Who will understand?
-What if something bad happens?-
"I saw you looking at him!"
The first time it happens
You say, 'Something is wrong here,'
You say everyone deserves a second chance.
"Just want a woman who's honest."
Once it happens, you can almost be sure
It will happen again.
"I saw . . ."
It happens more and more often.
" . . . You looking . . . "
After, it persisted and persisted.
" . . . At him!"
No!
-Anything you're afraid of?-
I was afraid to let him change.
"With or without you."
What happened to make you change?
You really care, don't you?
"Leave me alone."
Don't you?
A chance to grow even closer—
Rather love than fight.
He wanted me.
Please!
Save me!
"Make your choice."
Reach out!
"We're out of time."
I'm so afraid.
"I saw you looking at him!"
I can explain!
Innocent!
I am.
You really care, don't you?
I remember . . .
"Not any more."
Try again.
Please. Try again.
Why won't you try?
I can't believe . . .
-Leave-
I have to get out of here.
"Get out."
I'm leaving.
-Just leave and you'll be OK-
I can't.
It's that boy.
-You can't live in misery.-
It doesn't have to be that way.
-There'll never be a better chance.-
I think about him all the time.
Let me explain it to you.
-I can't think of any reason why I should.-
He took me to town and married me.
He is father, mother, lover, husband.
I don't sleep.
I can't eat.
He loves me for what I am.
A chance to grow even closer.
-What if?-
The first step . . . One step at a time.
A little longer.
Make it last a little longer.
-Does it hurt him?-
We could do more.
-Does it hurt him?-
You'll never know what's right for me.
I'll never hurt you.
I'm not going anywhere.
It really does make a difference.
-You need a good reason to make the choices you make.-
I think I love you.
That's why.
I love you.
This is one of my most recent poems, written maybe two years ago (unlike the bulk of this poetry that is 2-3 decades old). I had it in a file called "whining."
Disillusionment
When I was young, I bought the fairy tale
I think you know the yarn,
Where the girl who's really special
Is awakened to her charms
And the years she went unnoticed,
Was dismissed, ignored or used,
Were worth the happy ending
With her chrysalis unloosed
I used that through a childhood
Where I always came up short.
I used that through a loveless marriage
'Til I left, a last resort.
I knew most didn't like me. I confused them,
Rubbed them wrong.
I took that as the price I paid
For singing different songs.
But I believed that I was "special"
No matter how I was dismissed.
My faith was like a talisman
To lead me through the mist.
I held it when I found the man
I loved like none before,
And knew, this man would cherish me
Appreciate my core.
But faith can't stand 'gainst data
At least not in my mind,
And decades of the same facts
Have made that dream unwind.
If all perceive me one way,
Nothing special, nothing grand,
Perhaps they see a bitter truth
I chose not to understand.
Perhaps there is no magic,
Not for me at any rate.
Perhaps no happy ending,
No fine deserving fate.
Perhaps they really see me,
Know all that I could be.
Perhaps the dribs and drabs of love
Are all I get to see.
I ask myself what is the truth?
With facts I've gleaned since birth.
Do they not really see me
Or do I have little worth?
Silliness
I mentioned (and you've probably seen ample proof) that the vast majority of my poems are pretty serious, even tragic. But, every once in a while, I get hit with a fit of silliness. This first one, "A Fairy Tale" was actually inspired by a short-lived silly show called "Wizards and Warriors" which tickled me for some reason.
A Fairy Tale
Long ago, a princess lived who was both young and fair,
With eyes of such celestial blue and long and golden hair,
But this day, there was sorrow as the castle heard her wail;
The tragedy again today—the princess broke a nail.
&n
bsp; Her promised was a handsome prince much loved within the land,
And all there hoped and waited for the day he took her hand,
'Cept one who wished Prince Dar to ne'er take Lila off the shelf
And who could wish this awful wish but poor Prince Dar himself.
Indeed, he thought her lovely, with an angel's face and more,
A body built for Venus that sent perfume from each pore.
All made such a woman as the best man dreams to wed,
Except, for all her beauty, she'd not one brain in her head.
Her temper, though, was golden, and she wasn't really vain,
Although, with her appearance, she took more than average pain.
She knew the people loved Dar and she loved him just the same;
In fact, she near adored him, when she could recall his name.
He thought he tried to love her, but the princess made him yawn,
For what, besides her beauty, was his love to be based on?
Yet, he was far too fine a man to love her for her face,
And edged around a wedding date (with a Deathpill, just in case).
At night, though, he would dream of her, of Lila's lovely smile,
But dreamed a maid of braver mold, just made in Lila's style,
Who wouldn't speak of clothing or thought her face too pale,
Who'd face her fate undaunted even with a broken nail.
This day, already mentioned, was a day of Lila's strife,
And, before the sun had set, this day had changed her life,
For another soul had longed to have young Lila in his care,
Though he dreamed of her father's gold and not that in her hair.
Magician Krantz, a wretched man who rode a mended broom
And snatched the sleeping princess from her silk 'n' velvet room.
As one might guess, sweet Lila screamed to wake up in that place;
'Twas not him peering at her—she'd no make-up on her face!
"Oh, God, don't gawk, you peasant! Just send to me my maid.
And, look, this gown is filthy! Not you! Do as I bade.
At least it was a new gown I was wearing to be caught
And thank God I was sleeping, might have torn it if I'd fought.
Oh, no!" she cried in anguish as her blue eyes filled with tears,
"My God, I've lost a slipper, oh, the worst fate I could fear!
And you! My maid! Go fetch her!" and Krantz left her at a run
And searched for half an hour 'til remembering there was none.
The castle roused in fury when the word came she'd been seized,
Her father wept with sorrow as he sobbed, hiccupped and wheezed,
"Oh, she must be frightened for what tortures might she find?"
Alack, Prince Dar thought glumly, all that clothing left behind.