Thursday, February 14, 2013

Happy Valentine's Day!

As a romance writer who can hardly visualize a tale that does not have a love story, and one with a happy ending, this day is special to me! I posted on my other blog more about what the day and what Love means to me! Here as a little gift to my friends and readers--or maybe I should say ours since Gwynn and I both take part in this--I'm sharing a few favorite verses on the subject of love from Gwynn's book Walking Down My Shadows. As I admitted on the other blog, a lot of the content is hardly deathless poetry but it is all honest and sincere and real to the writer at the time each verse was set down. Life is messy, untidy, sometimes painful to the point of being maudlin and all of that is reflected in the poems in that book. But a few I'm proud to claim and would offer no apologies for. I'll try to find three or four of those to share today.

One Summer Evening (7-1-65)

You came to me at twilight in answer to my call.
I thought that you’d forgotten but you hadn’t after all.
   Your voice was full of sorrow when you spoke that night to me
   Of things that should not happen and things that could not be.
I turned to you in anguish, torn by the grief we shared.
To let you know I love you and prove how much I cared
   You held me to you tightly your face pressed in my hair
   And then I turned to kiss you…I could stay forever there.                    
The matchless aching sweetness of the touch of your first kiss
That woke this sleeping princess could not have been amiss.                   
   We parted with a handclasp, strong and sweetly tender
   That matched our kiss in sweetness if not in stirring splendor.               
I left you with a promise echoing in my heart—
Again we’ll be together if tonight we have to part.
   I left you with a heartache and a gently murmured sigh,
   The last words softly whispered: Goodbye, Dear Heart, goodbye.

Sunday (6/69)

Was it just yesterday?
The air was warm, in motion.
Your eyes were warm, deep and still.
Metallic in the sun, your hair
like water rippled by the wind.

If it was yesterday . . . .
The wind blew our words
away, but eyes spoke clearer.
In no mime of love, we lay
apart, looks only touching.
And the grass is crushed where we lay.

And it was yesterday.
Your hand, leaf-brown,
tender in its strength,
I might have touched
but didn't, couldn't. . .

So where is yesterday?
Your face, unsoftened angles,
is still in my eyes but
the line is drawn again
black and plain between.
                                         Still, the grass is crushed where we lay. 

Death of Dreams (70)

Dreams die hard and slowly
Flows back life to fill
The vacuum left in heart bereft
Of trespassive love that still
Tenacious grows from tangled roots--
An ancient, wind-warped tree
That clings upon its weathered cliff
As for eternity.
Dreams die hard and slowly
heals the spirit torn
By an untimely severance of
Timeless bonds, reborn. 

A Touch    (9-15-79)

I sat so still beneath your hand
Afraid you might misunderstand
And somehow read as a rejection
Should I stir. Yet with affection
Flowing sweetly from that touch
I could only think how much
I wished  it would never end.
I did not dare to move at all
And yet wished my lips might fall
And lightly brush the fingers curled
About my shoulder, holding my world
In their warm and gentle clasp.
But there was no way to grasp
That perfect moment, hold it fast,
                                       And make it last and last and last. 

The Silent Song

Words without music is a silent song:
A lonely child who sought to belong,
A fearful soul striving so hard to be strong.
     Of love a silent song I must sing
     Offering dreams, the best I can bring,
     (though I fly like a bird with a broken wing.)
If half of love is all that can be
My half must be yours so take it from me
And hear what I sing, who shall never be free.
Love like a flood is sweeping me under,
Loving and giving, I cannot sunder
And knowing me well, how can you wonder?
     When yours is the hand that led me along,
     Yours is the strength that helped me be strong--
     My words without music are a silent song.

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