I always hear your laughter in the breeze,
While I walk along,
The lonely country roads.

On cold autumn mornings,
I still look for you,
As I did those many years ago.

When you chased away,
My loneliness,
With your whispering smiles.

I loved you so much back then,
I love you so much today.

When I feel a warm breeze,
Touching my cheek,
I turn to see;

If that's, you walking,
The road of life,
With me.

Copyright © 2016 Ronald J Chapman All Rights Reserved.

(Long, long ago,
when people still
believed in witches...)

-To wander
longingly through
the forest in search
of mystery, but
she herself was
a haunted house.
When night comes,
the whole witch chorus
follows anon.
On brooms of blazing
embers they ride,
Jumping out
of Hell-fire.
The wind is hushed,
The stars grow pale
while the black cat cries
to the moon.
It was All Hallow's Eve,
the ancient ones could tell.
Where ghosts haunt their
graveyard,
Until the morning stars sang
together.

(Here, in the forest,
dark and deep,
I offer you
eternal sleep...)

~

when joy seems lost, when peace is gone;
to earth falls flat pleas skyward cast;
when those thought once to be a friend,
have all gone on, seems none are left;
when ears that heard, yet now are deaf,
when dreams lay torn, and hope bereft.

do not despair, nor call for end,
beyond these mists i am your friend;
your voice, a cry on wing and clear,
not all have left, know i am near;
i am hope disguised as gentle hands,
that reach to sooth the soul in angst.

i am love cloaked as eyes that seek,
the wounded heart that silent weeps;
i am your brother, i your kin,
though not by blood, nor race, nor skin,
yet beats within this breast as yours,
a heart breathed life at heaven's door.

your breath, my own, my will i share,
till yours can breathe, your burdens bear;
my oath, my pledge, your comfort be,
my blood transfused, beats still in thee;
i lend my hope to be your warmth,
i offer arms to hold you close.

you need not face another day,
a lifeless soul who walks away,
a faceless one who’s lost their voice,
but ’til your own has been restored,
to you the lyrics, lines belong,
'til you remember, i’ll sing your song.

~

*post script.

approximately 96 hopeless souls reach the end each day, and pull the trigger on whatever their choice of escape they had planned it to be (that’s one every fifteen minutes).  the number is even larger if we include those who attempt and fail.  if there are only six degrees of separation, imagine how many in your circle this means are contemplating, and are in and out of some level of consideration of making this day their last.  remember, a song is amazingly powerful.  it does not take a fireman to talk someone down off a ledge or a policeman to coax someone into laying down the gun, it only takes someone who is willing to listen, long before the gun and the ledge; someone willing to smile and be hope and notes for a soul who has lost their song... to remind them of the song they have forgotten; their song... hope’s song!

Wild native branches - A jungle-green canopy sheltering this ever-flowing stream that runs rapidly,
most steadily, to and fro my heart.

Ancient autumn leaves weaved into an intricate, detailed, complex, rustic carpet, concealing paths and footprints leading in and out of my mind.

Forty two springs worth of magnificent arrays of wildflowers decorate each serene scene bordering this stream - each cluster a chapter of my life.

These scattered wild arrangements, with their heavenly scent, delight my senses - they are most pleasing to my mind's eye.

There's gold dust, nuggets, and precious gemstones, hidden in the gravel, they're also buried in the bedrock of this stream, and in the river that it feeds.
This stream is a constant source, feeding my hungry heart and mind.

The river that is fed by this stream
  is my soul - this ever-flowing stream is a corridor which runs to and fro my heart; it carries the oxygen in my blood, through my veins.

Whilst manoeuvering around the stepping-stones that are laid-out sporadically, most beautifully, but imperfectly, across this stream,
THEY, double cross me;
A highway, used to get to where THEY are going, time and time again.

~By Lady R.F ©2016