here you shall find me
must find me
we must meet
having met, we must
meet again in the shadows of
truth
beauty shines through the window and
dances with the dust in the air
the cat sits by the window
watching the birds
I sit by the window with your memory
watching for you
in the birds
in the trees
we must meet across the river
in the shade of that tree
that tree we cling to
so the raging waters of the flood
may not drown us in our own
innocence
Good Old Days Poem by Joan Pond
The Good Old Days
by Joan Pond
The good old days expired
when I sat on the bed
and he said he didn’t love me
as much as I loved him.
Irrecoverable
obsolete,
I was past perfect;
incomplete without him
Once upon a time
I’d found my prince
but he turned me into something
less.
Weighed
and found wanting
I packed beggardly boxes
and left,
not wanting to lose more
than I could
afford.
Good Old Days Copyright © 1998 by Joan Pond, All rights reserved
I Turned and You Were Gone by Joan Pond
NEEDLES OF PINE
I turned
and you were gone.
Clusters of blue hydrangea
and the scent of sweet privet,
were all that remained.
The cobblestones I’d traversed
for so many years,
seemed threatening.
A police officer asked,
‘are you okay?’
Suddenly,
a whiff of pine reminded me,
of a pillow I’d had in Vermont.
It was filled with prickly needles,
offering a certain scent
of solace.
I turned
but you were gone.
Lovers Poem
The Lovers
by Marilyn McIntyre
the lovers circle the wagons
stoke the fire
ignore all outrageous slings and arrows
their’s is a brave new frontier
the lovers swim in a pool of light
drowning in the depths of each others eyes
no need to be on guard
the lovers – spotlighted, dazed
applauding their own performance
no need for bad reviews
the lovers, their own sun
waltzing in the spring
encircled in their slow, slow, dance.
Days Long Ending by Wayne Jackson
Days Long Ending
By Wayne Jackson 1950-1989
Days long ending
and nights softly passing
are pleasing to me still
The house sits quietly like a sighing friend
The familiarity of abstract objects…
an ashtray echoing soft notes of New Orleans,
and other such things as I have picked,
claiming them as mine
Possessiveness is not sinful.
Display it pridefully.
as obedient symbols of achievement
and things remembered and not to be forgotten.
A thousand dusty books casually
caress their shelves.
Each a friendly reminder that
while they do not change,
a person who once knew them so sadly often does.
Copyright © 1997 by Donald Wayne Jackson, All rights reserved