That still lives today on Christmas cards all packed up now? Is that so?

Would the lamps that light the pathways put a glow upon her face?

Are these images of fantasies all gone without a trace?

Is she staring from the window of a house, with fascination,

And now totally enthralled by crystal clear precipitation,

Lightly falling down, to make the grass a darker shade of green,

And still willing for the happiness she sought at sweet sixteen?

Is she smiling in the sunshine of the inner city skylines;-

Looking pretty as a photograph unsuited to the bylines

All contained inside newspapers circulating with great speed?

Is she reaching for the clouds, and hoping that she’ll soon be freed?

Could she be a long lost princess, well-concealed within the fog?

Is she now beyond her thirties, and yet free to kiss the frog,

Thus transforming him into the prince he’d never ceased to be;

And especially if that prince of hers is someone just like me?

Is she free of all commitments made before the time was right,

And now open to her destiny in silent streets one night,

To become that part of me, which I have yet to find for sure,

That soft part that fills the void, so there can be no need for more?

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at LADY FROM SOMEWHERE ELSE.

Some one is trying to play, the mandolin of the mind;

When the deft fingers touch the strings of the heart,

A tone suppressed in tears, emanate from its haggard look.

And the staggering mind is retreating…Forsaken dusk!

Even the waxy moonlight appears to you as the burning summer.

And, spectacular vistas of spring, as sad rainy days.

The woeful heart, in an impeded wobble, tick feebly.

You became a singing bird, with wounded wings,

Flying queasy, through the gloom.

The bangles of the wind ceased to tinkle, and

Spring diverted its path, evading to brush

Mascara on her delightful eyelashes.

Unattained aspirations, wept in the chariot of rainbows.

Through millions of rebirths, we have been seeking

Frantically, for each other, and still our desires are unquenched.

Are you now a peddler, selling dreams and tears to me?

.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at A peddler….

I had a dream the other day,
Its vision will not go away,
About some people dressed in gowns,
(I know how strange this story sounds.)

Each gown was separate from the rest,
With different colours they were blest,
And everyone had points of view,
And revelations that were new.

They studied scripture, ancient books,
And gave each other dirty looks,
As back and forth they argued so,
As if to let each other know,

That they were blessed with knowledge, dear,
And their great wisdom would appear,
For they could point the way to God,
But all their knowledge was a fraud.

And then another happened by,
Who was alone and very shy,
And on an altar placed a gown,
And then upon it he laid down.

It was a gown so pure and white,
Yet more than white, for it was bright,
And as he laid there peacefully,
I knew at once that he was free.

And still the others held their glare,
So full of hate and unaware,
That one among them was at peace,
And so their conflict didn’t cease.

Another cried in solemn prayer,
And hoped that God was there somewhere,
As to the Virgin Mary called,
And on his knees he knelt and crawled.

Still on that altar in the room,
There laid a man, as in the womb,
So peaceful and so satisfied,
While those around both cursed and cried.

As quick as that I was awake,
And wondered what of it to make,
Yet as I thought upon the scene,
I knew the meaning of the dream.

The ones in gowns, religious folk,
Both pulled and strained within the yolk,
While trying to find the God above,
They weren’t aware of His great love.

But on that altar silence reigned,
He didn’t fight and wasn’t strained,
For he had met with Jesus there,
While they were lost, he was in prayer.

by David Ronald Bruce Pekrul

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at I Had A Dream.

Some one is trying to play, the mandolin of the mind;

When the deft fingers touch the strings of the heart,

A tone suppressed in tears, emanate from its haggard look.

And the staggering mind is retreating…Forsaken dusk!

Even the waxy moonlight appears to you as the burning summer.

And, spectacular vistas of spring, as sad rainy days.

The woeful heart, in an impeded wobble, tick feebly.

You became a singing bird, with wounded wings,

Flying queasy, through the gloom.

The bangles of the wind ceased to tinkle, and

Spring diverted its path, evading to brush

Mascara on her delightful eyelashes.

Unattained aspirations, wept in the chariot of rainbows.

Through millions of rebirths, we have been seeking

Frantically, for each other, and still our desires are unquenched.

Are you now a peddler, selling dreams and tears to me?

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at A peddler….

The living cease for you

And you cease for the living.

Then whatโ€™s it that you live for?

Few days into your death

Your house is no more yours

Your name is just a name.

Then whatโ€™s it that you live for?

When death has caught up with you

Thoughts you thought etherealize

Things you said become proverbs

So whatโ€™s it that you live for?

If death so unsettles you

Then whatโ€™s life?

You wish you could reverse it all

To cherish more those moments

Thatโ€™s what you live for.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Life.